Читать книгу From the Dog's Mouth - Wavecrest Imprint - Страница 7

From the very beginning there was a clash of wills between Mr. In-Charge and me. He always wanted me to poo and pee on command. (Let him try telling that to his fellow human beings.) And there’s the eating thing, too.

“Eat, eat, eat,” he’d bark at me the minute he put my food out. Of course, I rarely chowed-down when he wanted me to eat. I guess a lot of his ignorance comes from never having had a dog.

Dada could be mean. Oh, not boxcar murderer mean, but nasty enough. The maddest he ever got was when I wouldn’t eat on his schedule.

For example: “Gobble your vittles. Eat, you rotten little terrier. This is my house and you will do as I say do or you’re going back where you came from — and you can pay your own way back too.” (He would push my face in the food, and of course I resisted by running from him. I’m faster.)

He barked some more. “I said eat and I mean eat or you will not get another bite of food for three days. I’ll show you who’s boss.”

But then two minutes later he’d pick me up, trying to assure me that he loved me. His guilt overwhelmed his right to be the Alpha in our house. If I hadn’t been able to read him, I would be a bit daffy.

Dada was most impatient about how I avoided my breakfast in the morning. More than a dozen times he turned beet red and raged at me if I had not cleaned my bowl by 7:30 a.m. Now, we are up at 5:00 a.m. so he can beat the rest of the world to first base, but I like to eat at 9 o’clock. Sure, there were times I ate right away when he put it in my bowl, but not because he was blowing a gasket. We did come to a meeting of the minds, but not because I suddenly started to eat when he commanded. I do like that he started dusting my dog food with liver and chicken and beef sausage bits. Yummy yum yum!