Jennifer Moody

The scene: The Human, Me, is in front of the computer or reading the paper on the couch. It is the weekend. Dog, noting it is 2 p.m. and approximately 2 1/2 hours until her dinnertime, fixes me with a bright-eyed gaze and makes a few snortling noises.

Me: “What?”

Dog: (Snortles some more and feints a few times in my direction.)

Me: “You want to play?”

Dog: (Feints again.  Makes Wookiee noises. I stand. Dog commences bouncing vigorously around the living room.)

Me: “Where’s your ball? Get it! Get the ball!”

Dog: (tenses, waiting, staring at me. When no human movement toward the garage – where the dog food and treats are kept – or the kitchen is forthcoming, starts sending telepathic messages of great intensity.)

Dog: “No ball. Dinner.”

Me: “It isn’t your dinnertime yet. Go away.”

Dog: “Is it time for your dinner?”

Me: “No, it isn’t, and even if it were, you aren’t allowed to have any.”

Dog: “I really want some dinner. Perhaps if I bounce more?”

Me: “No. Go away.”

Dog (Pushing head under human elbow and making “whuff” sounds): “Just a snack, then?”

Me: “No. Go get your ball if you want to play. Play? Where’s the ball? There it is! (Throws ball.) “Get it! Go get it!”

Dog (glancing contemptuously at ball, then, hopefully, at the kitchen): “A small snack. Miniscule. I promise I’ll go away and chew on it and leave you alone.”

Me: “No. Go away. It’s not dinnertime.”

Dog (Places paw rather forcefully on human knee): “Pleeeaase?”

Me: “I’ll give you a belly rub.” (Scratches chest and belly. Dog accepts this for a few minutes, then wanders away, ears drooping. Returns a few minutes later. Scene repeats. Exasperated human tosses Dog a small rawhide chew. Dog bounds about with joy and retreats with her snack.)

An hour or so passes. Human is now in the kitchen checking dinner ingredients for the other humans. Dog stands about 6 inches inside the Kitchen, which she well knows is Forbidden Territory.

Me: “Get back in your area!”

Dog (scooching back a centimeter or two): “Is it dinnertime now?”

Me: “No. G’wan.”

Dog: (wagging furiously) “I can see you doing Food Things. How about now?”

Me: “No.”

Dog: “Now?”

Me: “NO.”

Dog: “Are we having meatloaf? I love meatloaf. Anytime you want me to finish any leftover meatloaf you might have, just let me know. Like those scraps those two silly puppies of yours don’t quite get to when they take their plates to the sink? I’m all over that.”

Me: “No, we’re not having meatloaf, we’re finishing the leftover ham, and I’m -”

Dog: (scooching forward again) “HAM? I like ham even better than meatloaf. I like ham very, very much. Very much! And I am a Good Dog. A Very Good Dog. Well, at least a Mostly Good Dog. And I often think about trying to be a Better Dog. That incident with the butter cube two weeks ago? An aberration. Is it dinnertime now?”

Me: “Get back in your area!”

And so it goes, until Human fills dish for Dog, who pointedly ignores food bowl and makes periodic kitchen boundary patrols to see how the leftover ham is coming along. About 4:30 p.m., Dog grudgingly takes a few mouthfuls of kibble.

Me: “Good girl.”

Dog (Instantly abandoning bowl): “See? Right? I told you I was a Good Girl. A Very Good Girl. Did I mention I like ham?”

Me: “Forget about it. Finish your own food and maybe we’ll drop a few bites in your dish.”

Dog: “Can’t we just pretend I already did? I like my food soooo much better when it has a little flavor in it.”

Me (sighing): “Let’s try that. I’ll put a tiny scrap of ham at the bottom of your dish. That’s ALL.”

Dog proceeds to fling kibble out of dish with her nose until finding and gulping the scrap. Eats a few more bites of kibble with admirable enthusiasm. Resumes pointed stares in the direction of the kitchen.

Humans eventually eat their own dinner. A scrap or two finds its way into the mostly-empty dog bowl. Dog moseys into the living room and curls up, satisfied.

For an hour or two.

Dog (tail wagging, eyes bright, paw on knee): “Is it time for dessert?”

(Thanks to Marilyn Smith for the inspiration)

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