There's A Hole, There's A Hole

A couple of days ago, Tap hit on a spot in the side yard and started digging.

Now, I didn't have a clue what all the fuss was about.  He was determined, though, so I found myself torn between stopping him lest he uncover some sort of. . .  I don't know. . .   thing, or let him dig away.  He was fast and he was focused and the thought crossed my mind that maybe digging would tire him out.

Every.  Single.  Time he and I went outside, he tried to make a beeline for that spot.  (It's far enough away from the house to not pose a danger or threaten the "landscaping."  Besides, he was building up a nice pile of red Georgia dirt;  it wouldn't be difficult to fill the hole back in.)

By the way, I think "red Georgia dirt" is a more pleasing phrase than "cellar door."

Yesterday, he had gone so deep, his entire head fit in the hole:

I told you he was fast and focused.

He started sort of whining and wagging his tail, and I started steeling myself against a mole or something being pulled out, but

it was a root.

Not even a big root.

He pulled and he bit and he shook his head until that little root cleaved in two, and he was done.  No interest in the hole anymore whatsoever.

Kids, huh?