My Twice Weekly

I think that my dog Sherman is a ”crack” head.

We wander out into the misting mornings to see what limbs are down, or what havoc the raccoons and possums have played the night before. Sherman immediately loses his mind. He races across the yard, zipping this way and that, his muscles bunched tight with anticipation... it’s no different really than the junkie on the corner looking for his fix, except that Sherman’s “fix” is much, much more horrid, and odious than any found in the bottom corner of a clear sandwich baggie.

I know immediately when he has found it. He scratches the ground furiously, with brief intervals as he bellows to the hound-dog gods. He then plunges his face into the hole, his tail swatting the air in great, swirling loops of joy at his good luck! When the face emerges again, it carries a great and unmistakable doggie smile, with peeled gums and crazy, tilted eyes.

I shake my head and smile at the happy fellow.

”Pooky-bear! Come quick? “Your” dog has been skunked again!