Digging

I’m a digging dog. I love to dig. Getting my paws revved up to pull, pull, pull dark, crumbling dirt from the bowels of the earth causes me to quiver with excitement.

It starts with a smell or vibration I sense close to the skin of the land. Initially, I scratch the area a few times to see if anything other than sand skitters away.

If I perceive motion, I set my front paw diggers on super speed. Quickly copious amounts of earth are airborne, flying everywhere. It’s a virtual dirt gale.

 Mom is warned to “Step back” so she doesn’t get caught in the storm of raining debris. She will not be happy with the wreckage of soil, clumps of grass, and the occasional worm being tossed in her face. My Mama hates when she gets muck on her lips, in her eyes, and heaven help all of us if she gets a worm in the mouth.

I’m not too shy to admit that a cavern quickly unfolds under my direct focus and assault. Sissy dogs check their hole-digging progress by measuring with their leg. Not me! I stick my entire head in. As you all know, I’ve got a  h u g e  head, so I do not mess around when excavating for something delectable.

Sometimes Mom is afraid the ground opening is going to swallow me whole. Calmly, I reassure My Mama that this isn’t my first rodeo. My Mom is smart; she knows that Digging to China isn’t a real thing. With my remarkable powers, I know my way around unearthing grub.

While tricky, you can see that elevation doesn’t hold me back. My powerful hindquarters can and will support all my front-pawed endeavors.

A good dig-out takes a ton of muscular power, extreme breath control, and complete nostril awareness.

Delving, jabbing, and poking into the ground is not for the faint of heart. I stifle a snicker when I see the 2-leggeds groaning while trying to make a hole with a shovel. They ineffectively stab at the ground, get a wee bit of dirt and make a production of tossing the molecules over their shoulder with a theatrical grunt. I want to shout at them, “Be a man, a woman, or a them, and do it with your hands.” Since only My Mom comprehends hound talk, it would be a waste of my breath, so I walk on by, cloaked in my air of superiority.

Breathing quality cannot be overlooked. I must know precisely where to exhale and when not to inhale, lest I get a copious amount of soil in my yapper. Let me tell you, a mouth full of dirt takes the fun right outta any dig. I exhale as I set my diggers in motion, inhale when the hole opening is wide, exhale as I get deeper, hold my wicked breath until I surface, then gulp, gulp, gulp, the fresh air down into my taxed lungs. I cock my ear to the side for a listen and blow out my breath while sticking my head deep into the earth’s underbelly once again.

Nostril awareness is tricky. All deep sniffing must be done top side. A shallow speed sniff is ok if you’re not at the bottom of the hole and not actively digging. If I screw this up, my poor nose will be more clogged than a toy-filled toilet.  

Even with my considerable prowess, I still get a dirty tongue and sometimes a filth-covered face. This particular field dirt is sturdy; the sides don’t collapse easily, so I’m still Mom’s handsome boy when I pull my head outta the cavern. Wow, my nose looks the perfect color and mostness for optimal health.

I have spent many an afternoon in this position. You might wonder how many rascals I’ve caught with my digging ways. Sadly, the answer is none.

I’ve destroyed many homes but have put nothing in my belly. I wonder how successful the other mutts are.

🧡 Luv Otis

FB – (Give me the coffee to change the things I can & wine to change the things I can’t) 😀

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