Last evening, my humans and I enjoyed our first fire pit blaze of the fall. It was magical . . . at first. Flames flickered through the air as we sat beside the warm glow of embers. Burning wood popped and cracked as we sniffed the autumnal air (well, I did most of the sniffing).
And then the most horrifying realization came to me: Those were my sticks burning in that fire pit. My humans had sacrificed my beautiful and oh-so-tasty sticks to their fire pit god. Just two days earlier, I had walked around my yard supervising my humans as they carefully collected a wheelbarrow full of sticks and then placed them in a nice little pile . . . just for me . . . I mean specifically for my chewing pleasure. Right? Apparently, I was wrong.
Well as fast as my humans could toss my sticks into that burning pit, I started pulling them from the stick pile and carrying them to safety.
I am pleased to report that I managed to sneak at least a few of my sticks from the pile . . . saving them from an almost certain fiery death at the hands of my humans. We won’t discuss the fate that those same sticks met between my jaws.
I am also pleased to report that my humans and I have reached an understanding. No more sacrificing my sticks to their fire pit god. That’s good news to me, because I rather enjoy our fall fires.
Footnote: I know it appears in the photo above that our scarecrow has been sacrificed to the fire pit god. I can assure you that this is not the case. He was at a very safe distance and is currently keeping the crows away. Thankfully, he has no power to repel squirrels.
Also, my human mommy/blogging assistant “got a little off track” with my blogging. (Those are her sugar-coated words. Just between us, she has been completely dreadful at updating you on my adventures and keeping me up-to-date on yours.) She promises that with this post she is now “back on the rails.” I plan to hold her feet to the fire . . . a fire built without any of my precious sticks.