A Tail of Two Halves.

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A pastry coloured dog pearing at a green bogx being held by a woman amongst flowers.
Every morning, without fail, Sue takes our dog, Crumble, for a stroll around the neighbourhood. It's their little ritual, a bit of 'me-time' for both. I enjoy the peace and quiet, contemplating the mysteries of the universe or, more likely, just savouring a coffee and relishing the fact that I'm not the one picking up Crumble's "presents" along the way.

Sue's walks are more than just walks. They're mini adventures, and she always returns with some local news or a snippet about the progress of the seasons, flooding in the fields, or the latest neighbourhood drama. You know, the real hard-hitting stuff.

On this particular day, Sue's curiosity was piqued not by the usual neighbourhood gossip or Crumble's antics (though watching her try to catch a squirrel is always entertaining). No, it was something unusual. As she walked into our drive, she decided on a whim to check the flowerbeds next to her car, probably hoping to find that missing earring. Instead, she spotted a small, green, rectangular plastic box nestling in the shingle.

Now, Sue, ever curious (some might say nosy), couldn't just walk past it. No, that would be too easy. Upon closer inspection, she discovered it wasn't just any box. It was a rectangular contraption with a small spring that practically screamed, "Open me, I dare you!" Driven by curiosity and a dash of recklessness (or maybe too much morning coffee), she opened it. What she found inside was different from the Sierra Madre's lost treasure. Or even that missing earring.

Nestled within was the decapitated head of a tiny mouse, its little pink eyes staring up as if to say, "Well, this is awkward. I seem to have misplaced my body." Sue is made of strong stuff, but even she felt a shiver run down her spine at this macabre discovery. It's not every day you find a mouse head in a plastic box. At least, not in our neighbourhood. Can't speak for the Joneses down the street.

Returning home, Sue shared her tale—or rather, the mouse's lack of one! We put together the likely scenario: the mouse trap had met its mark, and a local fox or perhaps a particularly discerning cat had stumbled upon it. Deciding that the mouse body was a delicacy, but the head was a bit too haute cuisine, it had left us this...gift. How very thoughtful.

We couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Our garden had become the stage for a nature documentary gone wrong, or perhaps right, depending on your perspective. It was a reminder that life, especially with Sue's morning walks, is never dull. And as for Crumble? She seemed rather miffed that she'd missed out on all the excitement. But there's always tomorrow, and who knows what adventures await in the great beyond of our garden. Perhaps the rest of that mouse.

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