It’s been an odd month for Dawg. First we had great outdoor weather for romping (78 degrees — not bad for the end of winter!). Everything got all green and stuff. Dawg loves rolling on the grass when it’s putting out those nice, soft, new shoots. Then we had snow (got down into the teens — not bad for the beginning of spring!). Everything got all white and fluffy. Dawg loves leaping into snow drifts and snapping at falling snowflakes. Okay, the deepest drift we had was about a half-inch, and it was mostly sleet, but Dawg’s not choosy when it comes to weather.
Then springtime came back, and there his fun ended. Time for his monthly bath and haircut. I managed to get a snapshot of him as he exited his bath (above). As you can see, he was none too happy. But a quick romp outside where he tried to roll in something disgusting made him feel better. Then it was back inside, to loll around on his doggie bed and pretend we hadn’t been torturing him for the past hour.
Eventually, he forgave us. Him getting doggy treats helped that mood change along considerably. He even condescended to gnaw on his Xmas bone for a few minutes — his way of saying that we were forgiven.
Speaking of treats, Dawg has odd tastes for a dog. He likes some of the usual dog stuff, but, oddly enough, not the standard things. For example, he thinks cat scat is doggy Almond Roca, so I have to keep him away from Kat’s litter box indoors (and away from any scat outdoors). But he turns his nose up at peanut butter. Dawg won’t touch that stuff, even if you just put a dab on a piece of cheese (his favorite doggy treat). Nope — ain’t gonna do it. And he’s the first dog I’ve ever known that won’t eat bread. Weird, huh?
On top of that, I’ve never seen him take food off a plate or a snack tray. He’ll look longingly at that piece of cheese sticking out of the cheese sandwich on my TV tray, but even if I leave the room, I know it’s safe. At least, I used to know that. Now, I’m not too sure.
As a diabetic, my food intake is pretty controlled. I eat only certain amounts of certain foods at certain times, balanced by my insulin intake. However, sometimes my blood glucose levels start to drop too much and I’ll take a hit of peanut butter between meals. Occasionally just some PB on a spoon, but more often I put it on a slice of bread. If I’m feeling particularly low on sugar, I’ll top it off with another slice of bread, making it officially a sandwich.
So, given Dawg’s manners and tastes, I wasn’t worried the other day when I left my PBS (peanut butter sandwich) on the end table beside my easy chair while I back to the kitchen for a glass of water. But while I was in the kitchen, I noticed that the clothes in the washer had finished, so I transferred them to the dryer. Then I noticed that there were some dirty dishes in the sink, so tried to put them in the dishwasher, only, the dishwasher was full of clean dishes, so I had to take them out and put them in their proper places in the cabinets.
It must have been five or six minutes before I got back to my chair. Imagine my surprise when, after settling into place in front of the TV, I reached for my sandwich, and it wasn’t there. Normally, I’d have assumed I’d left it in the kitchen, but, for once, I’d actually put it on a plate and the plate was still there. Next I reviewed my short-term memory (what little I have) to see if I’d eaten it already, but no, there was no lingering taste of peanut butter in my mind or in my mouth. I looked around on the floor to see if it had somehow leaped off the plate in a bid for sandwich freedom, but, nope, it wasn’t there either.
I finally looked at Dawg to ask him if he knew where the sandwich had gone, but the words never left my mouth. Because laying on the doggy bed in between his paws was the remains of my PBS. The bread around the edges had been nibbled off, but there was no mistaking it — it was definitely my sandwich. Dawg had nibbled the bread crust off, and nibbled in towards the center until he hit peanut butter. What was left was a perfect circle, with the edges crimped and nibbled until it looked like it had been cut out with pinking shears. I was stunned. Dawg looked up at me out of the top of his eyes, looking about as pitiful as I’ve ever seen a dog look. I had to leave the room so that he wouldn’t see me laughing.
Under the circumstances, I didn’t want to “punish” him by calling him a ‘bad Dawg’ because he’d already received his punishment — he’d eaten peanut butter. I also didn’t want to pick up the PBS in case he wanted more (although that seemed like a near impossibility). So I did the next best thing: I left him with his sandwich (which he didn’t touch again) while I ate some cheese right in front of him.
Dawg appeared properly chastised so I’m sure he’s learned his lesson. I’m just not quite sure what that lesson might be. We’ll probably find out soon enough.