Snowflakes, Sprouts, and Secret Genius

Today, I made the questionable decision to let bygones be bygones and spend time with Giggle Sprout. (I am, after all, still waiting for him to apologize for the insulting letter he wrote.)

We went outside into the falling snow.

Giggle Sprout immediately began attempting to catch snowflakes with his mouth, as though they were tiny, fleeing insects under his personal supervision.

Watching a Brussels sprout do uncontrolled mouth gymnastics is deeply unsettling. And yet, I couldn’t look away.

Giggle Sprout eventually got himself so dizzy he fell head first into a snowbank, legs flailing and all. (Eye roll. Serves him right.)

I left him to his devices and turned my attention to a big snowflake that had landed on the fence. I took out my magnifying glass and examined it with the seriousness it deserved.

Clearly, this was no ordinary snowflake. Fibonacci patterns.
(Of course I can spot Fibonacci patterns. Any self-respecting dachshund would.)

Giggle Sprout appeared beside me, mouth open, eyes wild. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or about to eat the snowflake. With him, you never know.

“Don’t breathe on it! It’ll melt!” I said. “Do you see that shape?”

He squinted, then grinned.
“Ah!” he sighed. “You’ve found the legendary crown of Fibbonacius the First!”

I just stared.

For a Brussels sprout, he sometimes said things that made me wonder if he was secretly a genius.

Nah.

Note to self:

• Order an IQ test.