As you know, I carefully monitor the deliveries to our home and, lately, we’ve been getting boxes and boxes of the good stuff.
Can you believe, for countless years I accepted my fate and crunched my way through hard, dry pellets they called food! If I had known then what I know now, well, let me just say, I wouldn’t’ve been so compliant.
The delicacies that a can can hold!
But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me set the scene.
Every morning I open my eyes, uncurl from the sofa, place my paws on the floor and stretch out my back. Ahh.
The Woman does a crude approximation of this when she does yoga. I say, let dogs be dogs and humans be humans. You don’t see me trying to walk around on my hind paws do you?
After I’ve stretched out the kinks, I mosey on over to the kitchen and wait, expectantly, for my daily dose of nirvana.
First, there’s the welcome klisk of the pull tab opening the can.
Then the air fills with a delectable aroma.
I can barely contain myself and follow The Woman over to my bowl. As she scraps out the last savory bits, a bit of saliva pools in my mouth. OK, some of it drips on the floor too, but who’s looking?
She carefully mashes it up. Then it’s my turn.
The soft, moist mouth feel! The pungent, chickeny taste! I can’t resist licking the bowl clean.
When The Man opens the can, it’s a different scene. He’s usually distracted. Puts the can down a few times and walks away. I have to circle around his legs to make sure he stays on task. A bit of helpful nudging moves things along.
None of this mashing it up business for us guys. He dumps the can and my breakfast lands with a wet splat in the bowl, quivering in its cylindrical shape before it teeters over.
I rush in and rip off a piece. Food flies as I shake my head to pull my mouthful free.
We males. We do things differently.
Mashed or whole, it’s wonderful either way. Never…never, will I accept a dry dog food diet again.