Help, I Think My Dog is a Mole

The Misadventures of Cato

Welcome to Pocketful of Prose, a community for sharing stories. This month I’ve been writing about letting go. One of the things I am trying to let go of is taking myself too seriously. This pocket is a hard lean into the silly. I hope it adds a little laughter and light to your week. If so, please consider sharing with a friend. You can also choose to support my work by becoming a paid subscriber. (Yearly subscriptions are discounted until the end of the month.)

Without further ado, today’s pocket.

I am worried about our dog.

Cato is eleven years old. She’s reached her late middle-age. Some would even say she’s a senior. This is a time of life where dogs develop issues, so it is important for us to keep an eye on Cato’s health.

Fortunately, Cato has a clean bill of health. She’s recovered from two knee surgeries. She’s back to taking long walks. Sometimes, she even runs and jumps down the stairs in anticipation of these walks. Other than moderate anxiety, who doesn’t have that, and eating a diet which is supplemented by an odd assortment of non-food items, a habit she’s had for many years, she’s doing great.

So, I am not worried about Cato’s age, and I’m not worried about her health. I am worried because I think she might be a mole.

I think Cato might secretly be working for Moms for Liberty.

Cato, while adorable, has always had a shadow side. She is a beautiful, but she is destructive. It wouldn’t be Christmas without Cato taking out an ornament or two. She doesn’t discriminate between ornaments. The doughy ones the kids made when they were little are long gone. Now, nothing escapes her reach. Wooden sleds, stuffed penguins, handmade hearts disappear one by one. Cato’s cache over the years extends far beyond ornaments. It includes rubber bands, crayons, play-dough, clothes hangers… you name it. Her digestion achieves the impossible on a regular basis. Occasionally, she shoots the moon and vomits her cache on the carpet, which is not so great. Recently, though, Cato has hit a new rock bottom. Her appetite has taken a nefarious turn.

She has started eating books.

It tore at my heartstrings a little when Cato ate Seabass’ plastered kindergarten handprint, a memento from a former time when his hands were still small and chubby, and finger painting was still fun. But this destruction of books is unforgivable .

At first, her actions seemed innocent. She destroyed a few pages of my memoir. To be fair, the pages she ate were about her, and it coincided with my musings about how much truth to tell in memoir. I thought this might just be her way of giving feedback.

Then, she went after Natalie Goldberg’s Old Friend from Far Away, one of my all-time favorite books to teach writing. I am not talking about a little slobber on the pages. I am talking about complete chapters stripped away and consumed. Who would she do such a thing?

It has gotten so bad I can no longer safely leave a book by my bedside. Instead, I hide them in my closet or in the chest at the foot of our bed. Still, she manages to sniff them out. She drags them out from under the bed. She somehow gets behind cabinets.

Recently, she’s growing even bolder. She tore Diary of a Wimpy Kid to shreds. I think it was a targeted attack because she went for number one. In a single swift act, she rendered the whole series worthless. We will never know why Roderick rules. As I was picking up the pieces, I noticed the word mind on one of the scraps of paper. I think it was a warning.

After recycling the remains of Greg Heffley’s journal, I sit Cato down on the bed for a heart to heart. I look deep into her eyes. She remains strong as steel. I give up and pet her soft, gorgeous fur which smells faintly of kibble, partially chewed pinecones and betrayal. As I read Elizabeth Acevedo’s The Fire on High, Cato puts her head in my lap. I try not to think about her sniffing the pages.

When she nods off, I hide the book under my mattress, careful not to make a sound. I take out my computer and do a little research on Moms for Liberty. There are eleven chapters in my state. One of those chapters is right here in Spokane. I tell myself I am probably not sleeping with the enemy.  

“We are moms. We are dads. We are grandparents. We are activists,” the website says. It doesn’t say anything about dogs, but then again, you can’t believe everything you read.