A rumor has surfaced about Hollinshead Dog Park today, and I am conducting a thorough audit of the evidence.

The Chuckit resides in the mudroom, precisely where it always resides. Its location has not changed. This fact alone neither confirms nor denies the rumor, though I note it for the record.

Gus remains on the family room sofa, displaying his characteristic approach to unverified intelligence: complete indifference until the car keys make their particular sound. His methodology differs from mine. I prefer to gather data.

The sun has established itself with unusual authority for early May — 14°C at 08:12, which translates to optimism in the household vocabulary. Dad has looked toward the back door twice. The frequency suggests consideration. Mom mentioned the weather during breakfast preparation, though she mentions many things during breakfast preparation. I have learned to weigh these communications carefully.

The trails, I am told, are thick with hikers. This intelligence comes through the radio, which broadcasts its daily inventory of human movement across Central Oregon. Hollinshead experiences corresponding increases in foot traffic when the mountains fill beyond capacity. Simple displacement theory.

I have positioned myself near the studio door, which provides optimal sightlines to both the mudroom and the desk. The Chuckit remains visible. The cookie jar remains accessible. The car keys rest in their designated location on the counter. All elements of the equation remain constant.

Gus has shifted position on the sofa — not a significant movement, merely an adjustment of the ears. Still, I note it. In matters of potential park deployment, even minor variations in brother behavior warrant documentation.

The rumor itself came through channels I cannot disclose, though I can confirm its legitimacy rests on observable patterns: the particular quality of morning light, the precision with which breakfast concluded, the subtle increase in human eye contact between Mom and Dad when certain words — words like ‘beautiful’ and ‘shame to waste’ — entered their conversation.

I am not, by nature, given to speculation. But 25°C appears in today’s forecast, which represents a 6-degree deviation above seasonal expectations. Such mathematical anomalies demand response.

The Chuckit knows its purpose. The trails will accommodate additional traffic. My legs are prepared for the particular demands of tennis ball mathematics.

I remain at my post, monitoring developments. Rumors, I have found, possess their own momentum. They either materialize into car keys and leash sounds, or they dissolve into the ordinary rhythm of Wednesday morning studio work.

Either outcome is acceptable. Only the not knowing requires management.

~P.W.