It's Still Life

The Great Digging Mystery
(Or: A Cane Corso’s Underground Ambitions)

The cat sits on the fence post,
high, safe,
watching Crymych,
the Italian mastiff with the Welsh name,
dig a hole in his garden.
Deep.
Determined.
Earth flying like brown bag confetti.

The Old Woman appears with her tea.
“What’s he doing?”

The cat doesn’t look away.
“That, Old Woman,
is the question of the hour.
Is he burying himself?
Unlikely.
Too large.
Lacks stealth.”

Crymych’s head disappears into the trench.

“Is he uncovering hidden treasure?
Possible.
The previous owners were Welsh.
They may have hidden cheese.
Or a spare vowel.”

The dog emerges, snout covered in dirt,
and snorts.

“Or,” the cat continues,
“is he entering New Zealand illegally?
The most plausible theory.
This is a tunnel, Old Woman.
A subterranean passage.
He is immigrating.
Without paperwork.
Without passport.

Without a proper understanding
of Maori culture.”

He flicks his ears.

“I should report him.
To the Bureau
of Questionable Excavations.

Crymych stops digging,
lifts his great head,
and stares at the cat.

“He knows I’m watching,” the cat whispers.
“He’s auditioning.
For what, I don’t know.
Maybe a dramaturgical work
as a very large mole.”

The dog barks.
Just once.
Deep.
Earth-shaking.

The cat’s tail puffs.

“…I’m going inside.
Lock the doors.
Hide the sardines.
If New Zealand calls,
I never met him.”

He leaps down,
dignity intact,
and adds over his shoulder:

“Also, plant more lavender.
Aggressively.
We need defensive flora.”