“I don’t know. Around here somewhere. I hear him.”
I heard him also and decided to investigate. Found him in the dining room eating . . . a book. From the time he was small he has been fascinated by books, paper, and pens. Chews and eats them all.
He had climbed onto a hassock, cleared half a shelf of books, knocked them to the floor, and with his sharp white teeth had destroyed an expensive, old book. I scolded him, cleaned up the mess, rearranged all the books, and got out the vacuum cleaner to finish the job. He lay silently and watched my activities, offering up the distinct look of a chastened soul, which look, I have come to believe, may be contaminated with a hefty portion of hypocrisy.
Later in the day, again I could not find him. Neither could Jerry. We looked everywhere, including the floor-level shelf in the dining room that he had claimed as a tiny pup for a sleeping place, and from which long ago I had cleared all books. He was not there. I called him loudly. Nothing. We began the search again, looking under things and again outside. I lingered in the dining room when I went there another time. Something out of place caught my eye.
A dark object had wedged himself behind the books on the shelf. The same shelf. The one he had cleared out earlier in the day.
“Winston, why didn’t you answer me? What are you doing in that book shelf?”
He opened his sleepy eyes a bit wider, but said not a word.
The rascal. As I rearranged the books before I lifted him off the shelf, he drifted off to sleep again.
I suppose I should be impressed with owning such an intellectual pup, but to tell the truth, I sometimes wish he preferred one of his balls or a chew toy over books, pens and papers.