It was the middle of the afternoon, and I couldn’t find Tommy.
A few minutes before, my 15-month-old had been playing in the living room, scattering books left and right. I knew something was wrong when I suddenly noticed the house had become just too quiet.
I wandered the house, calling his name. His room was empty. The bathtub was empty. His secret fort on the back porch was empty.
I checked the house’s front and back doors — both were still closed and locked. Okay, he hadn’t left the house. I kept sleuthing.
The basement door was open a crack, so I wandered down there. I didn’t see Tommy in the laundry room, or hiding under the stairs. I called out his name again.
Suddenly, the lid of our 66-quart Sterilite container of dog food moved.
I lifted up the cover. There was Tom, hands and knees buried in 20 pounds of Purina. He had made a little castle out of dog chow and was happily digging away, chuckling and giggling.