Descending the outdoor steps,
I glance to see,
A huge hole in the ground,
Right next to me.

Between the steps and corner of the house,
A deep hole has been dug out.
Inside the hole, lying quietly,
I find our mastiff Tonka looking up at me.

Dogs dig holes
To burry things.
Dogs dig holes
As comfort brings.

Why has she done this?
What mystery could there be?
Was it for spite?
No, for comfort, I see.

She lies there,
Looking cool and smug,
In her summer borough,
Which she has dug.

“What’s that dog digging up now?” I reach into the hole and pull out an old tin box but can’t figure out how to open it. Not to be left out, Fritzie squirms under my arm and presses his nose to the top of the box. It immediately pops open. It contains a telegraph key which reminds me of the master key in L. Frank Baum’s book. “Is this meant for Fritzie . . . or for me? Will it work like the key in the story worked for Rob? Do I dare press it?”