You Don't Mess with Dinner

The Nose Knows All

I’m very particular about food.

For breakfast, I require an engraved invitation of sorts every morning.  Whoever makes my breakfast has to come to me to tell me that it is ready and sometimes they even have to provide me with “proof of sincerity” by hand delivering a kibble to sample.  And at dinner time, I get annoyed when the chef doesn’t serve my meal fast enough.   What do I do when dinner is running late?  I sarcastically check my empty elevated food stand and shoot dirty looks at the chef while I wait. 

And it doesn’t stop with meal time.  When I was a puppy there wasn’t a snack I didn’t first drag into the living room to sniff suspiciously before consuming (I was a rotten juvenile delinquent expecting my comeuppance) and to this day I refuse to accept treats from the vet (though I will accept (and frankly I expect) a cookie from the treat bowl at checkout). 

So, as I said, food means a lot to me and I do not appreciate when the process surrounding it changes.  Sadly, that’s what happened to me yesterday. 

Ma spent a good portion of the day giving the dining room a deep clean and part of that apparently included scrubbing the food particles and spit off of my elevated food stand.  Although a bit offended by the implied messiness of me, I took no offense and generally no notice.   But then dinner time rolled around. 

At 3:30 (yes, I now enjoy early bird specials), I wandered into the dining room to give my normal sarcastic glance at my empty bowl while Pa slaved away at my kibble only to discover that my food stand was missing.  Concerned, I turned toward Pa just as he finished adding pumpkin to my bowl, but instead of him bringing the food to me, he turned toward the door, my bowl in hand, and walked outside. 

With this, I started barking hysterically.  Where was he taking my food? 

A lifetime later (okay, it might have been ten seconds), Pa returned and beckoned me toward the door.  I refused and ran back to where my dinner bowl should be sitting.   Pa called my name.  I looked at him.  I looked at my bowl.  I looked back at him and responded by barking some more. 

Eventually, Pa gave up trying to get me to go outside on my own.  He walked over, hooked my collar, and ushered me out. 

Now I was really confused.   What was Pa’s game?   Why wasn’t he giving me my dinner and why was he forcing me outside?   Between frantic thoughts and worry, I heard Pa tell me to go eat my supper.  What was he talking about?   I was nowhere near where my bowl has been placed twice daily for 15 years!

Completely panicked and wasting away with hunger, I lumbered up the driveway and into the backyard.  Frantically I did a circle of the perimeter, then rushed back down the driveway toward the side steps which I leapt up. 

With a sigh, Pa walked over, hooked my collar, and guided me back down the stairs telling me to go get my dinner.  Up the driveway I lumbered again, more frantic than before, and did another loop of the backyard.  Then, just as before, I scurried back to the side steps and started barking to go in. 

Once again, Pa walked over, hooked my collar, and led me back down the stairs.  But instead of letting me go for a third loop of the backyard, he physically guided me halfway up the driveway saying, “you idiot, your bowl is right here.” 

And that’s when I noticed it.  My elevated bowl was sitting in the middle of the driveway, fully stocked with my dinner and fresh water.   I had run by it four times and hadn’t noticed it once. 

Now as my loyal readers have probably have already guessed, Ma and Pa were practically falling over laughing at me and my antics.  But you know what?   I didn’t care.  I had my dinner (and discovered that dining al fresco wasn't too bad).

The Paparazzi Interrupting Nap Time