Doggone Easter

By myself I couldn’t find an Easter egg with a state of the art Global Positioning System and a Sherpa guide bearing a topographical map of the back yard.  I spent every Easter morning of my childhood trotting along beside my dad while he stared pointedly at pink and purple speckled clumps of grass and sighed, “Are you sure you looked in that one?”

 

The only egg I ever found by myself was the one that caught on fire one blustery Easter when the grill blew over.  At the end of the hunt I proudly displayed a basket filled with burned charcoal briquettes and one hard-smoked egg. My joy was boundless.

 

This year I planned ahead.  I trained the Dachshund on a scratch and sniff Easter Egg book and promised her half of the take.  Easter will be scent-sational!