Someone has ravaged the toilet paper; a roll lies torn and gashed in the hallway, another beaten by the bath, white against the floor, they are crime scene, chalk body outlines from some doggie drive by.

It happens so fast, it couldn’t be our dogs; aren’t they asleep at our feet or curled in the corner, the poster children of divine innocence.

Anyway, weren’t we just in the hall, in this very spot, not moments ago?

Why, the very mechanics of such mutilation, the sheer stealth involved, what kind of thought process would drive the perpetrator to commit an act of depraved violence as this.

Is it hunger, boredom; no, they are virtual dog treats with legs from being fed by the Grandma’s and here we are, solely for their entertainment; scratch my ears, go outside, come inside, play ball, get up, sit down or move over.

Perhaps it’s Daisy, the youngest Springer, clearly she has the capacity for crazy but not so much the weird. We know for certain that it’s not Dexter, sweet old boy wouldn’t go out of his way to cause damage.

And that would leave Lola; yes, Lola of the red paint, the consumer of tampons, mad dog of the garden and destroyer of cloth monkeys. I know she’s still in there, the Lola Dog within the Lola Dog; the puppy that raced in circles and bit with needle teeth.

How she flew down the hallway in pursuit of the bedtime ball chase with Poppa, back when she was the “only” dog, before the Springer’s came, when she could still reach the top of the bed and sleep between the humans.

She’s in there still, her eyes shine when she looks up from the floor and a smile shows; though it’s difficult for her to get up and her back haunches will tremble when she does.

It is she, I throw her a toilet corpse and she pounces, realizes the rouse, then acknowledges her guilt with a smirk turns and heads down the hall.

We all remain in here somewhere, underneath this  weight of  illness, age and gravity, when occasionally the light that resides within us rises, and like memory, we are children or puppies again.

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