Boomer’s a beggar. Whenever there’s food, he’s there with those big, brown eyes, giving me that look, the one he hopes earns him a piece of … something, anything.
I guess I can’t blame my twelve-year-old golden mutt. Aren’t all dogs beggars?
Some historians theorize it was young wolf cubs begging around early man’s campfires that led to the creation of man’s best friend.
Still, you’d think two squares a day, plus treats, would be enough for my best friend.
Not so. Boomer wants a piece of everything, even though I rarely give him anything. Anything that is, except his food and the occasional bit of people food.
Did I mention the chicken breast treat he gets each and every time we come in the house after he’s done his business? Or something good?
Some days, I feel like a treat dispenser, or a dorm cafeteria worker, which has to explain the phrase I came up with to give myself a respite from my dog’s begging.
I say it as I’m tidying up the kitchen before going to bed. Naturally, Boomer joins me with that hungry face that says, pretty please?
That’s when I look directly into those big, brown eyes and utter the one thing that puts an end to the begging:
“Food services is closed for the night.”
At which point Boomer lowers his head in resignation, exits the kitchen and goes to sleep. At which point I exhale with relief to know the stalking, excuse me, begging, is over, at least for another day.