My journalistic instinct is such that when I heard my husband's question, I had to get up from the breakfast table and immediately go to where the action was. Larry might have been mistaken; it's happened before. On this occasion, however, he was correct--there was indeed a biscuit in the middle of the living room floor. It was quietly laying there, minding its own business, possibly waiting for butter to fall from the skies.
I kicked at it with my foot, to make sure there were no bugs attached to the biscuit, before picking it up. It was as hard as a rock. After some discussion, we chalked the incident up to random weirdness, which is a normal occurrence at our house. Opening the back door, I threw the biscuit on the grass for the birds to eat, letting our dog Maisy outside as well. I closed the door, and forgot all about it.
Two hours later, the same biscuit was back, right in the middle of the living room floor. I kicked it with my foot when I was carrying a basket of laundry to the laundry room. It made some noise as it hit the kitchen floor. I put the basket down, and said my usual "WTF?" (Cursing in initials was okay, I decided, at least until Zane starts figuring out what WTF stands for.)
I squatted down next to the biscuit and checked to make sure that there were no tiny legs underneath. I picked it up. I shook it. I looked for holes that would indicate worms or other tiny critters. It was a stale biscuit, nothing more. My legs had fallen asleep from squatting by this point, so I just sat on the floor and pondered the situation.
How did the biscuit get back inside the house?
We hadn't had biscuits for breakfast in several days. I had thrown the leftover biscuits out into the back yard at least two days ago. The biscuit did not just walk back into the house all by itself. There had to be an explanation.
I wasn't usually that inattentive to my housework--I am sure that I would have spotted a random biscuit if I had dropped one. There was a possibility that my son had been kicking the biscuit around like a tiny soccer ball, except that I had threatened him with a noogie if I caught him kicking soccer balls in the house again. Larry would have eaten the biscuit, not thrown it on the floor.
That left the animals in the house. The cats were immediately eliminated as suspects. Pounce never leaves the upstairs, and Zena is all about living, squeaking things. Cats aren't big on carbs.
I took the biscuit and walked to the door. Maisy followed me, tail wagging. I opened the back door, and Maisy ran outside. I tossed the biscuit out in the middle of the back yard, closed the door and waited. Maisy ran over to the biscuit, sniffed at it, and then picked it up in her mouth. She marched proudly back to the door, head held high. The biscuit in her mouth was practically invisible. I opened the door, and Maisy happily brought her prize back into the house...dropping it in the middle of the living room. She gave the biscuit a lick, and then lay down next to it.
Somewhere, in Maisy's doggy brain, the biscuit was a play toy, not food. Not just a play toy; her ALL TIME FAVORITE play toy! We kept waiting for her to forget the toy, or to move on to another toy. Every time we tried to get rid of the biscuit, either by throwing it outside or dropping it into the trash, Maisy would find it again and bring it back to her spot on the rug. I guess she thought that we were playing an elaborate game of Fetch?
Dogs are weird.
P.S. We were finally able to replace the biscuit with a new ball. After two days.