A Shortcut Worth Taking

There were certain things Bingo considered himself exceptionally good at.

Finding the warmest spot on a quilt was one. Hearing the refrigerator door open from three rooms away was another.

And when it came to getting from Point A to Point B, Bingo firmly believed that the shortest route was usually the best one. This philosophy worked perfectly well at home and around the village.

In the countryside, however, it occasionally required a little improvisation.

One sunny afternoon, Bingo slipped through the loose plank in the fence and headed toward the meadows beyond the village.

He had no particular destination in mind. The air smelled of damp earth and fallen leaves, and in the distance Herr Merz, wearing his usual red Swiss cap with the white cross on the front, was slowly plowing his field.

Then Bingo caught another smell.

Sausage.

He stopped mid-step. His nose lifted. His ears went up.

Definitely sausage.

Bingo followed the scent across the meadow and into the woods until the path brought him to a little creek. On the opposite bank, a family had settled beneath the trees for a picnic.

And there, unmistakably, was the source of the wonderful smell.

Unfortunately, there was water between Bingo and the sausage. The creek wasn’t terribly wide, but it tumbled cheerfully over the rocks, making enough noise to suggest that getting across might require some thoughtful planning.

Bingo looked upstream. Through the trees he could see a little wooden footbridge. It was also quite a long way away.

He looked at the picnic.

Then at the creek.

Several large stones poked above the water. One here. Another there. A third slightly farther away.

Bingo studied them carefully.

A perfectly suitable river crossing.

The first stone was easy.

The second required a longer step.

The third was slippery.

One back paw slid off the edge and landed briefly in the cold water.

Bingo froze.

He looked down at his wet paw.

Then he looked across at the sausage.

No disaster. No reason to turn back.

He continued more carefully, picking his way from stone to stone until he scrambled onto the opposite bank with wet paws, but his dignity—and the rest of him—perfectly intact.

The family had already noticed their unexpected visitor.

Bingo sat down at a polite distance and produced the expression of a dog who had clearly not eaten in several weeks.

It was one of his better expressions.

A small piece of sausage soon came his way.

Bingo accepted it graciously.

The expedition, he decided, had been entirely worthwhile.

Eventually, it was time to head home. When Bingo reached the creek again, he stopped beside the stepping stones.

He looked at the first.

Then the second.

Then the particularly untrustworthy third.

Bingo glanced upstream.

This time, he took the footbridge.

The shortest route was an excellent philosophy, but an experienced adventurer also knew when the scenic route had its advantages.