This morning I strolled back from the wood pile with two buckets of kindling in my hands when I almost tripped over a loafer. And I mean one of those moccasin-style shoes, not a lazy dude basking in the sun.
“What the heck?”. Yes , it was a single loafer, made from nice soft leather sitting all alone in the yard. Sure it wasn’t mine. I don’t posses such a nice piece of footwear sporting mostly white bunny boots or hip-high waders more recently. “Where did this slipper come from?”. Maybe it was there all winter covered with snow and we just didn’t see it? No, the shoe was too clean and shiny for that.
“What is that?”. There is another, non-matching shoe over there. Then I find a bottle of Johnny’s and some other knick knack. Somebody must have dropped that stuff in the middle of the lawn. Who? Well, it wasn’t me. That’s for sure. And it wasn’t Travis, either. We are the only humans within 30 miles or so. That leaves an intruder, or…
I walk over to Buckey’s cabin our resident neighbor currently hunting grizzlies on Kodiak. His front door is ajar!
There you have it. Somebody got into the cabin and took at least 3 single loafers, seasoning salt, a whistle, a pistil, and some pieces of paper out of the trash. Well, no human with a sane mind would hike 30 miles across the tundra, take those items, drop them on the front lawn and move on.
I suspect the culprit is one those two:
Over night the wind must have popped the front door open. One of the foxes must have taken this irresistible opportunity to slip inside and grab whatever looked or smelled the most appealing.
exploiting chances offered by immediate circumstances without reference to a general plan or moral principle
I am not sure what was so attractive about the three loafers, though, and what they had in mind with the seasoning salt…