By the time I reluctantly pulled out of my comatose state, Kenny was exiting the room, wielding a small sword and an oversized spotlight, saying something about, "Artie might have been attacked by a coyote..."
Artie is our dog. I, of course, jumped out of bed to ask a whole bunch of unimportant questions. What I figured out between our bedroom door and the back door was that Kenny had let the dogs out to relieve themselves, but only one dog came back in. I knew immediately that he was jumping to conclusions. This is not the first time. In fact, every time an animal isn't clawing at our back door within one minute of being let outside, Kenny deems them lost, attacked or dead. He has no patience. (Of course, there was that one time that our cat was let out and ended up lost, then attacked, then dead...so I suppose maybe he's still traumatized by that).
I watched through the window as Kenny walked all the way down to, then around, the pond. I could see the light going every which way. After so many minutes of this, he returned through the back door. As we headed toward the front door, hoping for more luck in the front yard, we saw this:
And the way Artie was looking at us; both ears were pointing straight up in the air and he knew something was happening that was concerning and he really wanted to help us, but he just couldn't figure out why these humans of his were rushing outside into the scary, dark night. What could they possibly be looking for?
Within minutes, Kenny was laughing at his mistake. I, now wide awake, did not find it nearly as funny.
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