On the last leg of our morning walk in the schoolyard, DJ tore into a discarded lunchbox. Inside were half a tuna sandwich on pumpernickel, a snot-encrusted pink Barbie glove, and a squeaky rubber big toe.

“Ruff! Ruff!” DJ barked, tugging hard at the leash.

I’m used to this—he’s a terrier, after all. You never know what might strike his fancy. I cut him some slack, let him wander toward the hotspot, then gave a gentle tug to guide him back home.

“Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!” He barked louder, lunging so forcefully I lost my grip on the leash. Off he bounded toward a nook hidden behind an overgrown thorny weed.

“DJ, come back! Now!” I hollered.

“Holy toe-jam!” exclaimed my best friend, Dr. Bernie “Bunions” Bursting, the neighborhood’s revered podiatrist and amateur birdwatcher. “Let him be, Dave. He’s a terrier! You can’t fight selective breeding.”

“Relax, Bunions. I just don’t want him running off for the third time this week.”

Bunions pointed at DJ, who had unearthed a pink box from the nook and was happily pouncing on it. “What’d I tell you? A terrier’s gotta do what a terrier’s gotta do.”

“Point well taken,” I said, amused. Bunions always turned mundane dog walks into swashbuckling adventures—or at least in his own overactive mind.

Meanwhile, DJ lost interest in his treasure and turned his attention to chasing a black squirrel.

“Great Scott!” Bunions cried, whipping out his birdwatching binoculars. “That terrier’s got ADHD! Better prescribe him Ritalin!” He pulled out his scuffed-up iPhone, pretending to dictate a prescription.

I clapped him on the back. “Any other anomalies to report, old boy?”

Binoculars glued to his face; Bunions tracked the squirrel as it scurried up a telephone pole. “A man of science always finds anomalies, Dave.”

“Duly noted,” I said, grinning. “You do have a knack for finding the bizarre.”

“For the sake of humanity, Dave, take a look!” Bunions thrust the binoculars at me with far too much enthusiasm.

“Ouch!” I cried. “All I’m seeing is stars!”

Snatching the binoculars back, Bunions followed the squirrel as it performed an acrobatic act along the telephone wire. “Six toes, Dave! That squirrel’s got six toes on each foot! A veritable gripping machine!”

I shook my head, chuckling. “Alert Podiatrist’s Weekly! They’ll want the exclusive.”

Meanwhile, DJ abandoned the squirrel and returned to his treasure. In a flash, he was at my side, rummaging through the lunchbox’s contents:

• Half a tuna sandwich—gulped down into the hot vortex of his mouth.

• One snot-encrusted pink mitten—dropped at my feet, then retrieved as if he’d reconsidered.

• And a squeaky rubber big toe, which he delivered with great ceremony to Bunions.

Bunions wiped sweat from his brow with his monogrammed handkerchief and gazed at the squeaky toe. “Dave, only a man with permafrost coursing through his veins could stay cool living with a hyperkinetic maniac like DJ.”

I winked and clapped him on the back. “Some men are meant for dogs, Bunions. Others are meant for fungus-infested toenails. But ultimately, we’re just two old pals walking a dog around the block.”

The foot doctor chuckled, saluting me while squeezing the squeaky big toe. “Aye aye, Captain. And let me add, a terrier’s nose for adventure is unmatched!”

We cackled in unison.

“And now, dear partner in crime, let us boldly go where no man who dislikes beer has gone before.”

“Your basement, Dave—where kickoff starts in a few minutes!”

As we headed home, I glanced at DJ trotting ahead, wiry tail held high, proudly carrying the battered lunchbox like a trophy. For all his chaos, his boundless enthusiasm was contagious. Every walk felt like an exploration of new worlds, a mission into the unknown.

This one, of course, would be a tale for the ages—or at least until Bunions’ next emergency big toe transplant.