It’s been raining. Noah’s ark kind of rain. Flash flood warnings. Streams overflowing. Koi fish washed out of ponds and needing rescue.
But despite the dire weather, Pettigrew apparently still thought it was important to escort my parents to the back gate when they left the other night.
The only problem? No one saw him go. Sleek and dark, like a shadow he slipped out unobserved.
Sometime later I heard a shuffling sound. I wondered what Pettigrew was up to.
A few minutes later I heard it again.
It was not a noise with which I was familiar. I decided to investigate.
There, on the back porch, stood Pettigrew. Waiting patiently to be let in.
Behind him, on the porch floor, was a baseball glove. Odd that. Last I saw, all three gloves had been on the table. As I bent to pick it up I noticed it was now a partially chewed baseball glove.
Maybe he hadn’t been waiting so patiently.
Had he barked and we didn’t hear? If not, why didn’t he bark?
For his act of vengeance Pettigrew selected the glove belonging to my younger son. Was this because it was my son’s fault that Pettigrew was abandoned in the cold rain? No, my son wasn’t even downstairs when Pettigrew made his foray into the night. But the glove was too small. My son had outgrown it and needed a new, bigger one.
Did Pettigrew know this was the most expendable of the gloves? Did he choose with care?
Right now I’m just hoping his stomach handles the unexpected addition of the leather fragments.
*Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem title. Gender changed, with apologies to the poet.