Wallow

We started noticing some holes. More like trenches, really, up to ten inches deep, appearing overnight in the softest, most lovingly cultivated and watered areas of the garden. We would fill them in, replant the flowers (which the digger had tossed unceremoniously aside), and gently sprinkle their feverish roots with water. The next day, or maybe a few days after that, there would be another hole.

Who was doing it? And why? Neither of the dogs had been known to dig before. But both had dirt in their claws.

Not wanting to blame the wrong one – and realizing as well that dogs don't learn from being punished after the fact (nevermind that I don't believe in punishment anyway, but only in training through positive reinforcement, which so far has always worked pretty well, at least with Tater, and at least insofar as I've ever cared to practice it, which I will admit is not much) – we decided to do nothing until we knew for sure just exactly what we were dealing with.

That moment arrived yesterday, when Mr. A strode out into the yard and found Tater lying chest-deep in a freshly-dug pit of mud, fast asleep. He looked so cool and comfortable, he said, he didn't have the heart to yell.

We did fill in the hole, though, and have temporarily fenced the area.

Some might take this as just one more reason to not live with dogs. I look at it as an opportunity to learn – one more thing to add to the list of things to try when it's hot: wallow.

(That animal in the photo is not Tater, by the way. It's a water buffalo.)