Raiders of the lost bark

Louie

Cooper

Chucho
We had a couple bad moments last week. Twice when herself went out back to pick up the paper off the driveway, there was no paper there. It may not be much of a paper, the Vicad, but we are hidebound traditionalists and want to feel cellulose in one hand and coffee in the other in the morning, so the lack of a paper deranged the order of our home. Our first thoughts were that we had wicked neighbors who were beating us to the paper. A seasoned citizen of the village snortingly dismissed the idea. 'There's not nobody in this town would steal a paper.' Then a guy on the next corner down reported to a friend that he had found shredded newspapers in his yard two mornings in a row. That's when we snapped that the miscreants were a band of good dogs gone slightly astray. We asked our esteemed paper-thrower to throw the paper in the front yard, and the problem is solved. Apparently the pups were hearing her car when she turned the corner and hotfooting it down the block to pick up the paper.
We often see the boys out on canine commando, trotting along in tight formation looking for targets of opportunity. They make lightning raids on our front-porch catfood and pick up bones carelessly left about by our pup. We really like them and fear that they will come to some bad end wandering the streets. It says something about us that we can walk down the street and know the name of every dog and almost none of their owners.