I opened the back door to go get the mail and approximately 589 fucktillion Miller Moths flew into the house.
The dogs are now hunting them for sport and late-night snacks.
Well really Charlie is hunting them via galloping and leaping around the house and yelling whenever he swats/snaps one out of the air until Arwen comes and eats it. Arwen has a knee injury and can’t chase them like normal so it’s nice of him to share. Of course, any time Charlie yells about something, she has to yell back at him and thus they coordinate the Great Hunt by the loudest game of Marco Polo possible.
It’s 1 AM.
It’s their favorite thing all year, until their next favorite thing all year happens, because being a dog means your enthusiasm isn’t tempered by the illusion of time or the dumbassedry that just because something happens regularly that it isn’t special. Maybe I’m extremely sleep deprived but I feel like we could all learn from this attitude.
