Thursday, May 04, 2006

bones and pickles

Big night tonight.

I came home with an order of Arthur Bryants short ends and fries. One sniff and the dogs were beside themselves with lust.

They stared at me raptly as I sucked clean the bones. Then we retired to the kitchen and I started tossing them bones and fat and gristle and slices of bread soaked with sauce and grease. Their eyes were wild with passion as they gulped and gnawed.

When all that was left was a handful of pickle slices I started offering those. I held them high and the dogs lept up on their haunches, leaning in, yaps wide.

But when their nostrils took in a whiff of the bitter pickle stench they paused, confused, looking up at me like, What have you done to me meat?

Maddy, the priss, retreated, looking wounded and betrayed.

But Gobo, the biter, stayed up on his hind legs, mouth open, and calculated his options. I could see him thinking through it:

Not meat. But... This might be the last food I'll ever get


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