Love, Love Love love

He's a Mdium-sized Rez Dog which is to say he's mostly sighthound and pointer but he's a perfectly classically shaped hunting dog. He looks like he modeled the dogs on grecian pottery or hopped out of one of those 1700's paintings of stags at bay that would hang in the smoking rooms of the guys that funded the pillaging of the Americas but I digress. Sometimes I feel bad that I can't indulge him in what he was bred to do, because he loves scent-tracking and flushing geese and he damn near got me arrested in Grand Teton National park after he chewed through his leash and went haring off after a pronghorn antelope for half a mile at roughly mach fuck before the damn thing finally crossed a river and I was able to grab Charlie because he doesn't like getting his feetsies wet.

But today, we were on a walk in the local open space on a moderately muddy trail with fresh horse tracks in it. As in, we parked next to the horse trailer. The horse itself is actually perfecty visible about half a mile ahead of us.

But Charlie saw the tracks and went "I'm gonna scent-track this shit. I'm gonna hunt this motherfucking ungulate down by smell alone. I am truly the Nimrod of Dogs."

Full Instinct takeover happens. Head down, nose to the ground, pulling on his martingale hard enough that I could have hooked him up to a sled, stopping and dramatically pointing at road apples and bits of nibbled grass until I acknowledge that he has Identified An Article. He is having a GREAT time doing this, so I'm just there, looking at the horse that we are slowly catching up to and going. "Yeah! You got it! Good Job!"

But I'm also walking Herschel, who is a Corgi and he loves Activities, so he sees his big brother doing this and goes "OH BOY! AN ACTIVITY!!" and is trying his darndest to copy what Charlie's doing. Except he doesn't have a damn clue what is happening so he's slapping his livestock-bullying instincts on these horse tracks as hard as he can and just. Barking at horse shit to alert me to it's existence. Stalk-posing at the gras Charlie is pointing at, in case it jumps up and tries to run off. I think he thought perhaps they were herding an Invisible Cow and BY GOD it wasn't gonna run lose on his watch. Wherever it was.

Eventually, we get to about 100 feet behind the horse, which is an older Pinto out for a nice stroll and some fresh air and at this distance, Charlie decides that we're probably close enough for my dumb, relatively sensorily deprived human ass to see the horse, but just to make sure, he POINTS.

He's so fucking good at pointing. Perfectly still. Perfectly straight back and tail. Head up and ears forward. Front paw up and at the ready. Little diamond shape of back hackles up in excitement. Determined, unblinking lazer-eyed stare at the target. He looks like a very carnivorous hood ornament, the distilled essence of Hunting Dog, in a perfect scuptural pose. It's downright artistic. Inspiring even

Herschel is DELIGHTED, because he might not understand scent-tracking but he DID learn how to Point from Charlie and copies his pose exactly.

It has almost exactly the opposite emotional effect.

A Pointing Corgi is the most canine clownshoes nonsense possible. Herschel's pose is flawless of course, he learned from the Master, but the perfectly straight back looks funny as hell with a perfectly straight nub of a tail. His head is up and his gaze is locked but instead of predatory intent his face is EXTREMELY excited about this new Giant Friend and thier giant ankles he can barely wait to launch himself at and his face is about 80% Big Dumb Corgi Grin. Instead of Charlie's minute, even delicate hackles, Herschel has a full-body length doggy mowhawk, which is a good three inches long at the peaks over his shoulders and hips, ruining the sleek image and making him look like he just came out of the dryer and is still full of static electricity.

And, of course.

The Paw.

The Front Paw is up and at the ready- he and Charlie are both right-pawed apparently- and on his little stubby Corgi legs it looks like a toddler trying to use a smartphone. He thinks he's doing exactly what the Big Dogs do, but he only has these tiny feets.

HAPPY PRIDE! 🌈

At the time, I was also working at a pawn shop, and people would sometimes sell us teeth that had gold fillings, and one of the employees would remove the gold and then we were to dispose of the teeth, but I collected them in my own little tin at work to practice with(ethically-dubious, keeping people’s teeth without permission). One day, someone was at my desk and found my little tin of teeth and freaked out and threw them all away and I was very sad.

On break one day, hiding in my car as per usual, I innocently attempted to shove a handful of loose tip money in my glove compartment, i.e. a Later Me problem. However, when the door fell open, a bag of absolutely wretchéd (human?) teeth shamelessly presented itself with a hearty CLUNK as the drawer slammed open from the weight.

I contemplated the bag of teeth as it settled, gently clacking, telling me... something.

First thought: Well, of course there's a bag of teeth in my glove box. Not a modicum of shock. It felt... inevitable. Oh yeah, here's the teeth. The teeth compartment. There they are. A mysterious bag of (extremely filthy? HUMAN??) teeth is confusing and potentially threatening to most, sure. But I know who I am.

More importantly, I know who I'm married to.

Gathering up the precarious bag of (fake human? yes??) teeth, I sent my spouse this image and the following question:

So there I sit, baking in my hot car, a bag of Somebody Else's Teeth on my lap, awaiting a reply from my spouse like an urgent telegram. Against all sense and propriety I open said bag and start fishing through my treasure, holding them up to the light like a jeweler for inspection.

The teeth (pleasantly cool in my sweaty palms) are upsettingly - and unquestionably - human. Heavy as pearls, hard as hell, slick as bone china. The base of each tooth is coated in a sticky red substance, which I scrape off to properly examine. Somewhere, the Law and Order theme is playing. Ice T shakes his head at my folly.

The phone, and my spouse, remain silent.

After a very thorough examination, I come to a comforting conclusion: these are, in fact, (almost) entirely fake human teeth, likely blanks to use as replacements for the unteethed. The red substance is apparently wax, possibly to sort and display said chompers. This does not at all explain why they are, again, in my fucking glove box.

The phone finally beeples, and I shove the handful of teeth in my jacket pocket: another Later Me problem. Right now, knowledge is paramount.

The first message is not enlightening.

Spouse: OH NOOOO YOU FOUND THEM

me: ????????????

Spouse: I'll explain when you get home

me: ??????!!!!!!!!

SPOILER ALERT: My spouse purchased the teeth at an estate sale for a dentist who'd recently passed. They happened to borrow my shitbox car that day and shoved the bag in the glove box to keep it hidden. A clear failure, as I don't know how you forget a bag of teeth in someone else's car, but that's not my mystery to solve.

It turns out my spouse had a plan for those teeth. And O! what a plan it was! You see, we'd recently purchased The Property: a strange house built by an unbelievably creepy (and now thankfully deceased) mechanic in the early 50s. Not fun creepy, like my bag of teeth. More "Why is there a hatch cut into your roof" or "What is that secret compartment for" and "Why are there printouts of police codes everywhere." This is important, because...

...The Spouse's plan was to take these teeth and hide them throughout The Property. The very large, multi-structure Property we'd barely explored. They swore up and down they would never have shared their provenance with me; it was intended I would find each tooth over the course of years, growing more frustrated and confused every time a molar showed up in the attic or garage or Hatch or any number of infinite hidey-holes we now possessed.

This was a great plan, for sure. 10/10. And it might have worked, if they could hold it together long enough to fool me (doubtful). But I don't think it would have, because after all: