Rite of Spring

"C'mon Ray, let's go do yard work," I said to my hound.
Immediately, Ray headed for the back door, then turned to see if I was really coming or if I was trying to trick him. I jammed a hat on my head, put on my gardening gloves and opened the backdoor. Ray took two steps outside, turned, grabbed my hand, ripped off the glove, and ran.
Laughing, I ran after him.
"Don't you put a hole in that!" I warned him as I watched him slap himself silly with it.
Ray stopped for a brief second, then just as I got close enough to snatch my glove, took off again. I chased him down, pried my glove from his jaws, and got to work.
His annual glove-grabbing ritual completed, Ray also got down to work. He dug a few holes. He ate some mud. He lay in the sun until it got cloudy, then he dug some more holes. He yelled at the back fence.

Ray's trajectory 

After a few hours of trimming plants and pulling weeds, I was done. Followed by my trusty dog, I entered the kitchen. Obviously, at some point during his work, Ray had gotten thirsty and had gone inside to get a drink. The trail of mud clods followed his usual route from the dog door, across the kitchen to the far cabinets, then to his water bowl.

I went to get a broom. While I was sweeping up the mud clods, Ray ambled out the dog door with a rawhide bone in his mouth. Obliviously, I went about my chores. Ten minutes later, I was sweeping up more mud.