The dog truly ate my balls.
Morcillo is not evil. He is inevitable. He teaches us that loss is not a bug but a feature. Every ball he eats is a reminder that control is provisional, that order is negotiated, and that even in our own garden, entropy has a name and responds when you call it.
And when the timer runs out, the silence hits. Not triumph. Not despair. Just the knowledge that you tried, bargaining with toys, racing a dog who wanted the same bright things you did.
In the end, "Oh no! The dog ate my balls" asks a question older than philosophy itself:
If meaning is scattered across the lawn and time is short, what will you pick up first—and what will you let the dog have?
