I sit in the living room, reading a book. Four dogs sleep nearby. Butch, Kadi and Winston lie at various spots on the floor, and Lucy snuggles next to me on the sofa. The peacefulness surrounds us like a warm, soft hug.
After nearly an hour of undisturbed quiet, I lay my book on the end table and rise to go into another room. Around a corner and two steps away from the living room, I spot a puddle in the hall. “Oh my gosh!” I say loudly. “Who pee-peed on the floor?”
I take two steps backward and lean back far enough to look into the living room. Butch, Kadi and Winston are exactly where they were before. Except for the fact that all three of them have turned their heads to look at me, they haven’t changed position.
Lucy, however, has moved. She's on the sofa, but it's the other sofa. The one across the room from where I’d left her seconds ago. She lies in the center of the sofa, perpendicular to the back of it. She’s on her belly, with her head scrunched down and her chin resting on her paws. Her eyes are as big as I’ve ever seen them, and they're intensely focused on my face. She wags her tail tentatively, side to side, in slow motion, as if she imagines there's a white flag tied to it.
I opt for paper towels instead of a crime scene kit, so I can’t prove Lucy did it. Let's just say she's a canine of interest.