The dog-who-never-barks was barking, a regular cadence. Bark. Bark. Bark. A tempo he uses only when rattlesnakes are around.
Outside, I found the dog-who-never-barks four feet away from a five-foot coiled rattlesnake.
My three cats were in the side yard, on red alert as always whenever the dog-who-never-barks barks.
I called the dog into the house and went back for the cats. Because the snake was out back, I wanted the cats to go to the front yard. I approached them. They turned and made for the front door, running ahead of me.
I thought to myself: I’m herding cats.
Outside, I found the dog-who-never-barks four feet away from a five-foot coiled rattlesnake.
My three cats were in the side yard, on red alert as always whenever the dog-who-never-barks barks.
I called the dog into the house and went back for the cats. Because the snake was out back, I wanted the cats to go to the front yard. I approached them. They turned and made for the front door, running ahead of me.
I thought to myself: I’m herding cats.
