I walked outside to find Shirley shredding the last chapter of Leviticus. Tiny bits of the Good Book fluttered in the breeze and landed in the garden. The dachshunds had devoured the Bible I’d kept on the back porch.
Now, most dogs would look guilty when caught. But dachshunds are not like most dogs. Guilt is not in the dachshund’s repertoire of feelings.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Me? I didn’t do this.” She stood up, walked over to the second chapter of the Epistle of John lying forlornly next to the pot of gerbera daisies, squatted and peed on it.
“You’re going to hell, you know, for destroying God’s Word,” I said to her.
“You just better be glad I’m not Muslim and that’s not the Koran.”
“How appropriate, Laverne,” I said.
“I was reading it to Pancho. I heard you talking about having him neutered next month. While you’re on a cruise.”
“Hunnnnh?!” Pancho did a perfect Scooby Doo.
I shushed Laverne and said, “Look, guys, I’ve told you there are plenty of things in this garden you can eat. Parsley. Sage. Rosemary. Dogfood. But the one thing I said you could not eat was my Bible. Did I not tell you that the day you ate my Bible you would die?”
Laverne pointed at Shirley. “It was her idea. She said reading makes you smarter, and we wanted to be as smart as you are.”
Shirley quickly shifted the blame. “Don’t look at me. I have a thyroid condition that makes me too fat to jump. I couldn’t possibly have gotten onto the table and pulled your Bible down. It was Pancho.”
I looked at my three-legged Pancho, who wandered aloud if he was going to be evicted from paradise and sent to the pound. He, of course, was missing a leg to stand on.