The sound of my key in the door causes reality to inject a small dose of cause and effect into his miniscule mind.

That is why he sits in silence, hunched under the table, holding firm to the concept that by doing so he is invisible.

Does he truly believe that by remaining motionless his gray fur acts as camouflage on the red oriental rug?

How did he tightrope across Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest?

Doesn’t he realize that the complete silence makes the absence of his ear-piercing yelps, clattering tags, and flamboyant Schnauzer-on-a-pogostick greeting dance all the more noticeable – and cause for suspicion?

My crime scene skills, gleaned from thousands of award-winning televison shows, kick in.

Bits of chewed magenta candle litter the linoleum in front of the refrigerator.

“Who did this?” I ask in that pet owner voice that comes complimentary with every first leash.

And then he does it, his own personal answer to authoritarian challenge.

He jumps to his feet, cocks his head, and quietly woofs at me in complete canine defiance.

I offer you the translation:

   Wasn’t me.  It was Colonel Mustard, in the kitchen, with the candlestick.

Game.

Copyright 2009