Saintly sidekick sells soul for savory snacks

It is purely out of convenience that I walk about the world with dog treats in my pockets on most days. When you’ve got a friend whose enthusiasm for doing anything you ask is infinitely amplified by the mere prospect of a reward containing natural smoke flavor and real beef byproducts, you learn to come prepared. Our “very good boy” Frankie actually becomes “the very best boy” the moment treats are added to the equation. I know it’s a shakedown, but I’m not above paying a premium to bring out the best in the occasionally fickle hound.

Hygienically speaking, I am certain lining one’s pockets with oven-baked livestock remains is not a best practice. Frankie, nevertheless, seems to be fine with the idea. A pocket-worn biscuit is like a fresh stick of gum compared to some of the other things the hound regards as treats. (Roadkill squirrel and fresh deer doo come most immediately to mind.)

For as much as Frank enjoys a savory biscuit, neither my wife nor I truly suspected him of pillaging my pockets, much less chewing a hole in my shorts to get to one! So when the pocket of my shorts came up bottomless after the duds lay all night on the bedroom floor, we at first cast blame on a mouse. After calculating the odds of a small rodent making it to the second floor of a home patrolled constantly by a trio of agile and razor-toothed cats, we ruled that theory out entirely. Next up on the list of suspects were the cats themselves, but a cat even at its ornery best couldn’t have chewed a pocket off with such machine-like precision.

Kristin fixed the pocket, and I vowed to do a much better job of both emptying my pockets and properly hanging my clothes up off the bedroom floor as any civilized adult might do. It took exactly one week for me fail doubly, and the villain took the moment to instantly pounce. This time, however, he struck with malicious glee — both pockets were sawed off at the seams, even though only one had contained the treats! This was akin to a thief busting out a car window to steal a purse left lying on the seat, then busting out the opposite window simply for spite.

Pocketless and perplexed, I wandered the house, scratching my head and absent-mindedly dropping change through my bottomless pockets into my unlaced boots below.

There’s an old adage that says the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime. We know that now to be true, as deep in the midnight hour just a few days later, I was awakened by the slow creak of a door hinge. Immediately noting the absence of a certain dog carcass that typically takes up a third of our bed, I crept across the hall to my writing room, where I had purposely left a pair of trousers on the floor, pockets bated with oven-baked, liver-flavored thief lure.

There he was! Our trusted hound up to his eye sockets in the left leg of my cargo shorts! A dog named for a saint busted fully in the role of a sinner.

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John atjlorson@alonovus.com.