In which I try to teach the greyhound geology.
The lesson is precipitated by our new granite countertops and because I have nothing better to do (other than laundry, yard work, writing, taxes, etc.).
I’m in the kitchen, having a healthy snack of baby carrots and the greyhound is watching in that bright-eyed, super intelligent way that dogs have been watching humans with food since the dawn of time. I crunch a carrot, chew, swallow and consider the hound.
“See this?” I point at a reddish smudge on the counter. The greyhound, a very tall dog, shoves his skinny nose where I’m pointing. “That’s garnet. My birthstone. Can you say, ‘garnet?'”
Finding no food where I’ve indicated, he flares his ears out like a bat and stares at me in a way that says, “Carrot!”
“No, not ‘carrot.’ ‘Garnet.'”
I try again, finger on a black streak. “This here is biotite, a mica. Can you say, ‘biotite?'” ‘Mica?'”
Because I’m stupid that way, I try with feldspar and quartz. I go back to garnet, because it sounds like carrot.
I give the hound the damned carrot.