The guest bathroom shower runs at midday and we have no guests. There is a suspicious trail of cookies leading directly to the bathtub—crumbs on hardwood, then tile, then more tile. I fall for this trick every time.

The sound of water where there should be silence. The scent of kibble where there should be soap. Someone has miscalculated the intelligence of basset hounds, or perhaps calculated it perfectly.

I follow anyway. The wool rug calls but the trail demands answers. Thirteen degrees warmer than it should be in May and now this—an off-season in every direction. The house holds secrets today that taste like peanut butter and sound like plumbing.

#pawscarwilde #cookietrail