Sherlock is concerned. Deer are an extremely common sight here at our Lynchburg townhouse. Whole families stroll right into our front yard and loiter there frequently, just as caszh as can be, and stare at us, bemused, as we invade their personal space just long enough to make it out to our car. Sherlock is always very excited to see them, and only the sharp tug of his leash and collar keeps him from answering the call of the wild and joining the herd. They seem instinctively aware of the limits of that leash, and are slow to react to his frenetic barking and abruptly aborted dashes to greet them. Twice today he’s been out in the cold November rain, got his paws soaked, and was clearly glad to make it swiftly back inside to his warm cozy perch, snuggled safely atop a toasty afghan on Mommy's lap, where he can further perfect his number one skill -- high end marathon napping. But just now, he breathes a heavy sigh, and I know he is thinking about his deerbones buddies. Where do they go in such harsh, unfriendly weather? Is there some deerbones domicile or woodland shelter they can resort to, where they can warm themselves and be shielded from this wintry wetness? He seems to know they have no humans to snuggle out there in the Virginia wild. Except maybe Glenn, the decorated Vietnam vet with PTSD, who abandoned his urban dwelling to join them in the forest years ago, and whose birthday they celebrate repeatedly with great and unrestrained fanfare at random, unannounced times whene'er the mood may strike. But then, no, Glenn is only the fictional character created by a bearded father to entertain his sleepyheaded children years ago at a Waukesha Bible School. Or is he? Sherlock ponders this deeply as he sighs again at the apparent plight of his wet friends outside, and buries his doggy noggin deep into the warm, cushy armrest of Mommy's recliner.
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