ART BY ANASTASIYA KLEMPACH On the third lap around the yard, I notice her escape tunnel hidden by a thick patch of mint along the fence — a brilliant use of camouflage. Still no sign of buried treasure though. I wonder if I can trick her into revealing her booty. Sparkles races past me and I stop chasing her. “All done,” I say. She barks, urging me on. “No more chase.” Her head drops. Remembering the parade of stolen objects, I ask, “Sparkles, where’s your ball?” She bounces back and forth on her front legs then runs to the corner Sparkles BY DEBORAH SALE-BUTLER “Sparkles!” A blur of white and merle fur charges through the screen door. The dog’s figured out I’m loaded with groceries and can’t collar her. Sparkles speeds through each room banking with Aussie precision until she locates her prize — my cat’s favorite catnip banana. She zig-zags past my legs and out the door before I can set down my bags. “God dammit, Sparkles.” I’m laughing too hard to be angry. My neighbor, Jack, told me their two-year-old named the Australian Shepherd “Sparkles” for her shiny blue eyes. She joined the Cook family as a playmate for their toddler, who lost interest soon after naming her. So the Cooks built her a dog house, filled their back yard with toys and left a dog who was bred with the intelligence to independently control an entire herd of sheep, with no job and no one to play with all day. Smart-girl Sparkles found ways to amuse herself. The first game she invented was “hide the toys.” On Monday, Jack came home to six fresh mounds of earth in the backyard. Under each pile of dirt, he discovered one of Sparkles’ toys. He filled in the holes and threw the toys away. Undeterred, Sparkles came up with another game, “find more toys.” She dug an exit hole under the fence on Tuesday and raided the neighborhood in search of new objects to bury. I watched her disappear under the fence with a hotdog, a tennis ball and a Barbie doll before she burgled my house. While I appreciate her clever plan, I need to get that catnip banana back before Tabby Ted notices. He has a nasty habit of protest-peeing. He’s been known to soak my bathroom throw rug for offenses as minor as moving his cat tree from one side of the living room to the other. I do not wish to incur Ted’s ammonia-scented wrath when he discovers the loss of his beloved banana, so I follow Sparkles back to her lair. She ducks into the hole hidden under the fence. Between the slats I see her running back and forth in the yard from her tunnel to a gate beside the garage — as if inviting me in. Such a smart doggo. I reach over the top of the gate and lift the latch. Sparkles twirls in the yard. “Okay Sparkles, where are your toy-ees?” She barks and playbows — not about to reveal her stash. So I squat, slap my thighs and say, “I’m gonna get you!” Thrilled at the game of chase, she takes off in a zoomie-run around the yard. I follow her, scanning for evidence of a new toy cemetery. 27 of a raised-bed planter and sticks her nose into a spot under the box that appears to be eroded from the rain. Laying on her side, she swipes her paw into the cavity, flicking out one item at a time. The tennis ball rolls deeper under the box and it takes her a minute to work it out. Meanwhile, I examine the pile and snatch the catnip banana from under the piece of hotdog. The meat flips over to reveal it has a nail and is, in fact, a severed finger. Sparkles nudges me with her nose then drops the ball at my feet. I toss it across the yard, to distract her while I overcome my initial shock and figure out what to do about the body part. I pluck a piece of lettuce from the planter to grab the finger. The dirt on the end makes it look like one of those chocolate-dipped strawberries rolled in nuts, so I imagine it must have been wet when she found it. I raise what now appears to be the first two knuckles of a pointer finger closer to my nose, wincing and bracing for the smell of decay, but there is none. The loss must have been recent. I exit through the gate knowing Sparkles will follow. Hopefully she’ll lead me to the owner of the severed digit. I retrace the path from her escape hole to the street and see a faint spot that looks like watery, brown paint on the sidewalk. Smart-girl Sparkles follows my gaze. She sniffs the spot and runs ahead. Following her, I see the trail of blood left by her trophy. She leads me to the end of the block and through the unlocked door of Herb Winkle’s garage-turned-workshop. Herb lays face up on the ground by the table saw, eyes closed, skin pale and a pool of blood around his left hand. I gasp and Herb’s eyes snap open. Sparkles and I both jump. “Jesus, Herb!” I call 911. The finger has been damaged too much to reattach, but Herb will be fine. Sparkles wags her tail, acting very pleased with herself as I lead her back home. “You’re not exactly a hero, but it was a good thing you nabbed that finger.” After Sparkles’ story appeared on every local news channel, Jack told me he was out of ideas for how to deal with her escapades. I told him I’d be happy to take her off his hands. Now that Sparkles attends ongoing agility training and sheep herding classes, she’s given up her thieving ways. She’s even won over her new roommate, Tabby Ted. I considered changing her name but decided her eyes really do sparkle, especially when she chasing sheep, and when she looks at me.
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