I guess I should be sorry
That my dog is tearing apart your leaf pile
The one swept into a perfect brown row, waiting by the curb
I see you standing just inside your back door, mug in hand, watching with chagrin
As she plunges chest deep, snuffling and snorting with glee, kicking them here and there, again
But it makes a satisfying sound and I can’t help but laugh a little
At her joy, your discomfiture and the futility of it all as the cold wind scatters more debris across your perfectly manicured yard

What you don’t know is that this sweater-wrapped rescue usually avoids terrifying things like grass, and water, and cold weather and crunchy autumn leaves
And that apparently there is some special magic about this particular pile, because it has beckoned her each morning this week on our walk
Maybe its perfect orderliness invites her chaos
Or maybe the joy of scenting a cat or a squirrel or something equally exciting can only be properly experienced from chest deep in the frosty leaves