It was a hot summer day when I reluctantly took Hart,

my golden noodle, for a walk.

Why reluctant?

Well, I was in the midst of a colonoscopy prep, if you get my drift, but he so

wanted a walk and I had to do it before I came to my, I ain't leaving the house

for love nor money, If you've been there, done that, you know what I mean.

I put the leash on him and I took off.

As I entered the trail close to our house, I noticed Hart heading for what appeared

to be a large leaf on the pavement.

He was a nosy dog, so it was okay, for just a moment.

Rather than a leaf, it was a perfect beef roast, plump and round,

about three pounds and ruby red.

All without the plastic wrapper, as though it just came fresh

out of the grocery store case.

I had little time to ponder the why of its presence on the

trail, but more on that later.

Hart's teeth quickly wrapped themselves around the roast, a treasure a dog

could only hope for in a lifetime.

And it was around 4 p.m..

and no one in the neighborhood was home.

I was suddenly alone with no options.

And a brain fog made worse by my prep.

I grabbed the bloody roast and I drug him back home, as it was in his jaw.

I was holding his leash as tight as I held the roast.

If I let go for a second, he would have headed to the carpeted

bedroom, which happened to be his lair for all his other conquests,

be they shoes, socks, underwear.

A whole bottle of melatonin and seizure medication, and more

than I have time to enumerate.

A bloody roast on my carpet?

Uh, no way.

That was going to happen.

With the leash firmly in my hand, I let go of the roast.

I figured he would never let go of that.

I was in my kitchen, and I grabbed first for scissors to cut the roast away.

When that predictably didn't work, I grabbed a knife.

Well, I quickly abandoned that idea.

I would either cut off my hand or his head, And I wasn't quite ready for that

risk, though I was nearing the abyss.

Taking a moment to lean against the counter with my hands preoccupied

with leash and roast, I gave thought to what could actually talk a dog

off a meat truck, so to speak.

He loved peanut butter, didn't he?

Peanut butter trump a roast?

Well, I'll try anything.

Again, letting go of the roast, not the leash.

I reached for the peanut butter jar.

Holding it between my legs, I clumsily used my left hand to screw off the lid.

I'm right handed, by the way.

I reached into the jar and, without any sense of decorum, took a glob into

my fist and held it down to his nose.

Much to my surprise, he let go of the roast.

I don't explain it, I just report it.

He headed for his lair.

Okay, peanut butter on the carpet is not too cool, but a bloody roast, no.

So I declared victory.

I quickly took a picture of the roast for posterity and put it into the

refrigerator for all lookers to behold.

An ordinary, miserable prep for a colonoscopy suddenly

didn't seem all that bad.

I won't, however, consider this as a solution to making

it better in the future.

I'll take just ordinary misery.

So how did that roast get on the trail?

I almost forgot to tell you the end to this tale of misery.

So stay tuned, and after the break, I'll tell you all about it.

Later that week, when I finally emerged from my ordeals, and was

feeling halfway normal again, I was overhearing a conversation in the

restaurant which my husband and I own.

Someone was talking about how they had placed a roast on the grill, went inside

for condiments, and upon returning, Saw a large bird carrying away the roast.

Well, we can't imagine what happened, they exclaimed.

Well, I smiled to myself.

I know.

No peanut butter for that poor bird.

Somehow, that roast dropped from his talons.

Who knows why?

I need to find the bird and maybe give him a big glob of peanut butter for posterity.

It was a hot summer day when I reluctantly took heart my golden noodle for a walk.

Why reluctant?

I was in the midst of a colonoscopy prep, if you get my drift.

But he so wanted to walk, and I had to do it before I reached the point of I ain't

leaving this house for love nor money.

You'll know what I mean if you've had a colonoscopy prep.

I put the leash on him and we took off.

As I entered the trail close to our house, I noticed Hart heading for what appeared

to be a large leaf on the pavement.

He was a nosy dog, so that was okay for just a moment.

Rather than a leaf, it was a perfect beef roast plump and round

about three pounds in ruby red.

All without the plastic wrapper, as though it just came fresh

out of the grocery store.

I had little time to ponder the why of its presence on the trail.

But more on that later.

Hart's teeth quickly wrapped themselves around the roast.

A treasure a dog can only hope for in a lifetime.

It was around 4 p.

m.

No one in the neighborhood was home.

I was suddenly alone with no options and brain fog from that prep.

I grabbed that bloody roast.

That was still in his mouth, obviously, and drug him back home.

I had to do something.

Here I was in my kitchen, holding his leash as tight as I held the roast.

If I let go for a second, he would have headed to the carpeted

bedroom, which happened to be his lair for all other conquests.

That includes shoes, socks, underwear, a whole bottle once of melatonin and

seizure medication, and he's still living.

And all a lot more than I have time to enumerate.

A bloody roast on my carpet?

No way that was going to happen.

With the leash firmly in my hand, I let go of the roast.

I figured he'd never let go of that on his own.

And I grabbed first scissors to cut the roast away, and when that predictably

didn't work, I grabbed a knife.

I quickly abandoned that idea.

I would either cut off my hand or his head, and I wasn't ready for that risk

yet, Taking a moment to lean against the counter with my hands preoccupied

with leash and roast, I gave a thought.

What could talk a dog off a meat truck, so to speak?

He loved peanut butter, didn't he?

Peanut butter trump a roast?

I'll try anything.

So, letting go of the roast, I reached for the peanut butter jar.

Holding it between my legs, I clumsily used my left hand to screw off the lid.

I'm right handed, by the way.

I reached into the jar and without any sense of decorum, or hygiene, took a glob

into my fist and held it down to his nose.

And much to my surprise, he let go of the roast.

He headed immediately for his lair.

Peanut butter on carpet is not cool, but better than a roast.

I declared victory.

I quickly took a picture of the roast for posterity and put it into the

refrigerator for all lookers to behold.

An ordinary, miserable prep for a colonoscopy suddenly

didn't seem all that bad.

I won't, however, consider this as a solution to making

it better in the future.

I'll take ordinary misery.

And how did that roast get on the trail?

Well, I almost forgot to tell you the end to this tale of misery.

Stay tuned, and after the break, I'll satisfy your curiosity.

Later that week, when I finally emerged from my dual ordeals, and

was feeling halfway normal again, I overheard a conversation in the

restaurant which my husband and I owned.

Someone was talking about how they had placed a roast on the grill,

and went inside for condiments.

Upon returning, they saw a large bird carrying a roast away.

Aw!

They exclaimed, We can't imagine what happened to that roast.

I smiled knowingly.

I know.

Poor bird.

Somehow, it fell from his talons.

I'm sure it happens in the world of Birdland.

Occasionally.