Biscuit was a Basset Hound with a very important nose and ears so long they swept the ground like two little brooms. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Every step he took, his ears collected things: a blade of grass, a beetle wing, a crumb of actual biscuit. His ears were very thorough. His ears did not miss much. Tonight, Mrs. Okafor had given Biscuit one important job. One. "Biscuit," she said, crouching down to his wrinkled, serious face, "carry my gardening gloves to the shed before dark. Tomorrow is planting day." She placed the gloves carefully in his mouth. They smelled of soil and lavender and Very Important Business.
Biscuit set off across the yard with great dignity. Sniff, sniff, sniff. His ears swept the warm dry grass. His short legs moved in a steady, purposeful plod. The gloves were safe. The shed was close. Everything was going exactly according to plan. Then the sprinkler switched on. WHOOOOSH. Cold water exploded from the ground in every direction — spinning, spraying, absolutely everywhere at once. Biscuit froze. A wall of water hit him directly in the left ear. Then the right. His eyebrows did something very dramatic.
And then — CRASH, SPLASH, THUMP — three dogs came charging through the hedge. There was Pip, the wiry Jack Russell, who went in a straight line very fast. There was Coco, the fluffy Pomeranian, who bounced sideways like a cotton ball in a breeze. And there was Bruno, the Labrador puppy, who had absolutely no idea what was happening but was extremely excited about it. They launched through the spray like tiny furry cannonballs. Pip skidded on the wet grass. Coco's fluff went flat. Bruno ran into the sprinkler itself, sneezed, then ran through it again because it seemed fun. Biscuit dropped the gloves.
He stood very still in the middle of the spinning water, completely soaked, trying to look dignified. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Water dripped off his chin. His ears were now enormous wet ribbons plastered to the ground. He was not dignified. He was very, very wet. But here is the thing about Basset Hound ears dragging through wet grass: they find things.
Biscuit began to walk. Slowly. Deliberately. His ears swept through the soaking lawn in wide, careful arcs. The grass was cold and flat under them. And then — bump — something crinkled. Something stuck. Something paper. He stopped. He sniffed. Under his left ear: the gloves, right where he had dropped them. Under his right ear: a small crinkled packet with a picture of tomatoes on it. Mrs. Okafor's lost seed packet. The one she had been hunting for all spring. Stuck flat to the lawn like it had been waiting there the whole time. Biscuit picked up the gloves. The seed packet was stuck to his ear. He walked the rest of the way to the shed in a slow, dripping, absolutely triumphant plod and nudged both things carefully through the door.
Then he sat down on the shed doorstep with a heavy, satisfied thump. Pip sat next to him. Coco sat next to Pip. Bruno sat on top of everyone, then slid off, then sat next to them properly. The sprinkler clicked off. The garden went quiet. The evening air smelled like wet earth and cut grass. Four damp dogs sat in a row, dripping gently onto the stone step. Biscuit's chin lowered. His eyes went slow. His ears spread out around him like two puddles. Sniff, sniff — sniff. Still.
