Emma was out in the living room a little too long and a little too quiet, so Howie called her into the office.
In she walked, slowly. The evidence was right there, covering her big, black nose like sugar on a doughnut. She’s usually fairly surreptitious about her litter-diving, and we only know she’s been up to no good when we see her smacking her lips that certain way dogs do when they’ve got cat poop wedged between their back teeth.
A recent switch from regular clay to clumping litter gave her away tonight, though, big-time. I grabbed my camera and told her to “stay!”, but it was too late; her tongue swept every foul and grainy morsel from view.
I thought I had the box wedged far enough into its corner that she couldn’t scout out Tootsie rolls, but I was wrong. Ick, dog, don’t even think about licking my face.