The long-awaited 2nd story by ghost writer
Edgar Allan Poo.
[A True Mystery that happened last week.]
Sadly, it was yet another wet and dismal day.
The Typist was about to settle down to a few hours of dreary chores starting with 2 weeks worth of ironing when, suddenly! she saw this!
Mud! on The Dog's bed!
"Oh no, Georgia!" the fastidious diligent housewife cried in anguish, hurrying off to get a brush and dustpan.
The Typist a.k.a. the fastidious diligent housewife knew exactly why there was dirt on the bed.
The Dog had been looking for her bone.
4 days earlier.
In the ongoing struggle to find a bone suitable for cleaning The Dog's teeth, The Cushion had come home with several bags of bovine skeletal parts.
The Typist decided to give The Dog half of this one.
[Which looks like a
She left The Dog alone to enjoy the bone, keeping a distant motherly eye on her progress.
After more than an hour, The Typist saw that The Dog was still, quite incredibly, gnawing the bone. She hadn't swallowed it [as she usually did]. In fact, upon closer inspection, the bone wasn't even cracked!
"Success!" The Typist thought happily, to quote her favourite tour guide.
She carefully dug out the remaining juicy marrow for The Good Dog, then decided to give her another few minutes with the bone before trashing it.
10 minutes later.
The Dog walked into the house.
"You finished, Georgia." The Typist said, thinking that The Dog had probably gotten bored. Off she went to pick up the bone.
To her horror! it was gone! All of it! She couldn't see even a single tiny shard! How was that possible?
She quickly text The Cushion at work to let him know that The Dog might have swallowed an almost intact 1/2 a bovine tibia and might die soon. Or be very constipated. And also, that it wasn't her fault.
She went back out into the yard and had another good look. Where might a dog bury a bone in a mostly paved courtyard with a diggable area only slightly larger than a postage stamp?
It was strange to say the least. But there was no bone anywhere. The only evidence The Typist found was some moved dirt in a far dark corner, too far and dark for her to crawl into.
"She may have buried it." she text again to The Cushion, somewhat relieved. And there, the story might have ended if it wasn't for what happened next.
The Typist came home from her exercise class to find the house in a mess. There were muddy paw prints everywhere. The Dog was tied up outside, looking very sorry for herself. The Cushion was right at the end of the courtyard, flashing a torchlight around in the heavyish rain.
"She's been digging for her bone!" he shouted out. "She just walked into the house and was all covered with mud! There's a hole right at the back but I can't see the bone anywhere!"
It was late. It was dark. It was raining. There was nothing to do but hose The Dirty Dog down and settle in for the night.
Which brings the story [finally] to Friday morning and the muddy bed.
The Typist was sure of one thing. The bone HAD to be out there somewhere. She also realised she was sick and tired of cleaning the house and bed after a muddy dog. So off she went to dig around [so to speak] for more clues.
Look what she found almost immediately!
For some reason known only to herself, The Dog had been slack. Not only had she not [re]buried the bone properly, she'd left piles of earth everywhere leading to the hole.
"Success!" The Typist exclaimed yet again, as she dug out the almost intact bone.
Then she carefully [in case there were maggots] bagged the bone and binned it...
...while The Poor Unsuspecting Dog lay fast asleep upstairs.
Every day since.
The Poor Dog has gone up to where she buried her bone. She sniffs the ground. She sniffs the air. She's re-dug a tiny hole looking for her treasure. Alas! It'll always be a mystery to her, how it's gone missing like that.
Should The Typist have removed the bone? Should she at least have allowed The Dog to witness the dastardly deed?
That's hard to say and depends on whether you care about such things.
In this household run by a fastidious, diligent housewife and a soft-hearted pushover Cushion, it will no doubt remain [I'm almost afraid to say it]...
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