Over the years my human parents and siblings have taken lessons in golf, tennis, swimming and kayaking. While I have no interest in any of these activities, I need a lesson in gopher hunting.
My former husky brother, Jake, excelled in gophers. I heard he’d dig them up on the bike path, bring them home in his mouth and refuse to drop the deceased. My mother had to swap out the rigor mortis rodent for a slice of my human brother’s Oscar Meyer bologna—which Jake considered an even exchange.
I’ve never eaten bologna.
My mother tells me I’m better at squirrel watching. In all my seven years I’ve only caught a gopher once which I promptly swallowed. There have been numerous opportunities, and my set up is excellent. First, I see the mound of dirt moving up and down. I crouch down as low as I can and inch forward, eyes fixated on what might be a snack. I pause and freeze, holding one leg in the air like a canine tripod. I glare at the exact spot. Then, I pounce—and nothing. My timing’s off for the closure.
“All gone,” my mother says.
I’d like to improve my skills, and wish my mother would run an ad on Craigslist. It could read something like: Experienced gopher-hunting instructor wanted. References required.