By Marla Boone
Contributing columnist
The first time I ever talked to my friend Kevin on the phone he mentioned the time. “It’s eight o’ clock,” he said. Two questions immediately sprang to mind: how did he know and why was it relevant? The two questions required two very similar (okay…identical) answers: the dog wanted his ice cream and the dog wanted his ice cream.
A reasonably bright person would have imbued this knowledge with the weight it deserves. Because when Hunter the Wonder Dog (it’s a wonder he still has a home) says it’s time for ice cream, he means it. Many months ago, I commented that Hunter is enormously food driven.
He enjoys chasing squirrels and birds. He is positively enamored of howling back to the local coyotes. And of course, he is smitten with his blue squeaky chew toy that looks like a demented snake with teeth. But above all this, he loves food. On schedule. This means his first meal is at six in the morning and the second is at four in the afternoon.
If you’re willing to endure an amount and volume of whining that would make you feel more kindly towards the worst two year old on the planet, you can delay ten or fifteen minutes. More than that and Hunter starts looking at you just like Hannibal Lector looked at Clarice.
Even if breakfast and dinner are smack on time, even if one adheres strictly to the atomic clock of meal times, even if a person rearranges their schedule to accommodate him, Hunter expects even more food from his humans. He has apparently seen Lord of the Rings once too often, which seems like a non sequitur unless you have met Hunter. The second-tier hero of the story, Samwise Gamgee, is Frodo’s most loyal friend.
He has many admirable traits but svelteness is not one of them. One of the reasons he is not svelte, aside from imbibing prodigious amounts of beer, is because he is a serious devotee of the Hobbit habit of second breakfast. Well, I know of another short, hairy-footed creature that also expects second breakfast, second dinner, and at least a bite of every repast large or small, in between. This was a revelation to me.
Many people have pleasant, even enlightening conversations at mealtime. The overriding point of discussion when I eat with Kevin is what is going to be saved (or, saints preserve us, cooked up specially) for Hunter. Just to remind Hunter that he is a dog, we feed him dog food. Admittedly, it is high-end dog food full of lamb and rice, but it’s dog food nonetheless. I realize it could be worse.
I know a woman whose dog eats only dog food made from kangaroos. I am not making this up. This food is imported from Australia at great expense. The dog seems to get a furiously upset stomach from anything else.
If you’ve ever taken care of (i.e. cleaned up after) a dog with a bad belly ache you understand the impetus here if not the financial rationalization. Hunter has learned that he can get the last few bites of anyone’s meal by 1. Looking pitiful 2. Drooling a truly colossal puddle of saliva at your feet and 3. Being a gigantic pain in the rear until he gets it.
Being the child of extremely frugal parents, I have a very hard time saving a piece of steak or a spoonful of mashed potatoes for a dog whose passive aggressiveness doesn’t stop at climbing up into my spot on the couch the minute I leave the room.
When people ask if Hunter is my dog, I reply that I would never have a dog that acts like him. My dogs were perfectly behaved little angels who never set a foot wrong and whose drool glands were apparently woefully underdeveloped. They didn’t get on the couch, either.
Marla Boone resides in Covington and writes for Miami Valley Today.
