Yes, there was a bit of a discussion/tussle/fisticuffs regarding who should be the rightful owner of said prize.
Sadly, I had to explain to the 7 3/4 year old diva that inhabits this house that Angus, dear sweet Irish God of love Angus (should be spelled Aengus truthfully, but who’s mincing letters), had done the job of digging it out of the sage brush and carting it down the hill. So, theoretically, and most rightfully, it should be his.
There were tears. Real, live tears. Seems she thought it smacked of dragon bones and as everything in this world has to do with dragons, then it simply must belong to her.
Ah, the harsh realities of life. Finders, keepers.
But, here’s the really sad part. Angus toted it around the yard for a couple of days, got down into the yummy marrow and proceeded to leave copious amounts of diarrhea-type substances everywhere. Everywhere. So. No more bone–dragon or otherwise.
Ah, the harsh realities of life.
(Of note: these pictures were taken in early October. It’s not green anymore. And there are no more leaves on the trees. They’re all on the ground. HOW do I know this? Because I had to pick them ALL up in the backyard. More on that later. And–it’s raining/snowing as I write. So there you go. A “file photo.” From a delinquent writer. I’d never make a deadline I don’t think. The diva thought she was something funny when she used one of her vocabulary words in a sentence this morning. “Mom is never prompt.” Ha ha ha.)