The pot pie incident is a story of two points of view. Human versus Dog. Me versus Huff.
Neither one of us is wrong.
I have been at it all day: cleaning, repairing, checking things off my household to-do list.
Finally pleased with my hard work, I take a homemade frozen pot pie - a gift from my son - and put it in the oven. I sit down on the couch to relax and read while it bakes.
The dog is pacing, sniffing. He starts whining, trying to get me to go in the kitchen. I pet him. Tell him to chill. He keeps pestering me.
The pot pie is smelling delicious now, so I check on it. Hooray! Dinner is ready!
I turn off the oven and prepare the table. I pour myself a glass of water. I fill the dog’s bowl with his food, although I know he won’t eat until I finish mine.
When I sit down to eat, I make the dog lay down. I tolerate no begging at my table. (Sandy has changed this, but that's another story.) The pot pie tastes as good as it smells. I finish my dinner and text my son to thank him. I also convey my willingness to accept more of these delicious gifts. (It helps him feel appreciated.)
I love my dog and want to share.
I haven't had Huff long so I don’t know how sensitive his stomach is to people food yet. I am cautious. I know he shouldn’t have the potatoes or onions, so I settle for a bit of crust with a little of the sauce.
He wolfs it down, barely tasting
it, and looks for more. I pat him on the head and direct him to his dish. He
She has been pacing all day,. She picks things up. She puts them down.
She harvests all the random bits of food and treats that I have been saving about the house - and she throws them out!
Occasionally she grabs the squirt bottle and sprays noxious fumes in the house. It will take me days of scratching and shredding to make this place smell like home again.
Now that it is time to be thinking about dinner, she is laying on the couch. Sigh.
I go in search of food, because someone has to do it. I am not sure how she got to be pack leader. When I question her, she says things like “job” and “rent.” It makes no sense to me, but it sounds scary, so I back down and go curl up on my blanket.
On this hunting run, I hit the jackpot. There is something delicious in the white box in the kitchen. She calls it “oven.” When she is opening, it, she makes me go lay down on the rug. That way, I can guard the kitchen entrance, thereby protecting our food cache.
If I had opposable thumbs I’d open the oven myself. But I need her to do that. Besides, she ought to do something to earn her dinner. I bound over to the couch to inform her of our good fortune. I have found dinner! She ignores me. Worse, she pats me on the head like I am some foolish puppy. I keep trying. I try to be patient, but humans are so slow sometimes.
Finally, she understands. I take up the guard position on the rug while she opens the box and retrieves our prize. Yes, I am a generous dog and am quite happy to share this bounty with my human.
You won’t believe what happens next!
She puts dog food in my bowl - the same chicken and brown rice kibble I have been eating for weeks. Sure it was good at first, but now, meh. I guess she wants me to know there is plenty of that left, too. Of course I know that. I check the bag each day when she opens it.
Then she takes our prize - my prize really, since I found it. And she eats it!
I can smell the aroma but I only get to watch her eat. Ok, she is the pack leader and she gets the first portion. Fine, I’ll wait. But what does she save me? A mouthful! Not even a proper mouthful. Then she has the nerve to point to the kibble!
Seriously, I am going to find out
what this “job” thing is
so I can do the “rent” thing
and straighten out this situation.
© Copyright Suzanne Grosser