On lost keys

and skinny dogs

I’ve got a thinning, old dog curled up on a pile of blankets on a bean bag chair filled with ancient stuffed animals.

Things are finally as they should be.

For a while though?

For a while dear reader, I was in distress.

Though I wanted to be right here, sitting, enjoying the presence of my doggy, who’s not long of this world.

Instead?

I lost my keys.

I did the dance, walked the route of finding my keys.

You know that dance.

I went through all of the places I was and then where I went from there. I went to the shed to get my Apple Pencil. I I opened the shed, got my pencil then left and locking the door.

My keys were involved in the process of both locking and unlocking the shed.

I had my keys recently. I knew they existed.

They had to be somewhere.

And yet?

And yet that somewhere, dear reader, was nowhere that I could imagine more experience.

I checked the shelves, the drawers and the hooks.

I checked my pockets so many times it looked like I’d invented some sort of new group dance like the Macarena