Good Ol’ Snack Dad Comes To The Rescue
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By Sweetie
K9 Correspondent
This morning began with betrayal. One moment I was basking in the gentle breeze of my ceiling fan, sprawled across my memory foam mattress with my delightfully lumpy pillow tucked beneath my chin. Then I heard it.
The unmistakable click of non-walking shoes. Then came the rustle of Real Clothes. And finally, the most ominous sound of all: lipstick. Mark my words: nothing good ever happens when lipstick appears before breakfast.
I padded into the living room and there was my human. Dressed. Hair fluffed. Lipstick applied and purse swinging like she had plans. And then, the sentence that shattered my fragile, bacon-loving heart: “I’ll be back this afternoon, Sweetie. Be good.”
Be good? I’m always good. I’m the reason she has a clean kitchen floor (you’re welcome for licking up that cereal milk yesterday). But that’s not the point. The point is she left me. She walked out the door, got in the car, and drove away without me to some place called the “District Garden Club Meeting.”
From what I’ve gathered, it’s where humans go to admire flowers, talk about flowers, and eat tiny sandwiches with other humans who have also abandoned their dogs. And I, who deeply appreciate a nicely pruned boxwood and adore tiny sandwiches, was not invited.
But I digress.
While I was emotionally destroyed, I was not without resources. Meet my backup plan. Snack Dad. He’s my human’s husband and, in her absence, the most easily manipulated babysitter in the history of snacks. He says things like “Don’t tell” while handing me bacon. He has the willpower of a pudding cup.
I turned to Snack Dad and unleashed the full force of my carefully developed guilt campaign: The tilt. The blink. The low, soulful sigh and look that says, “She left me. Probably forever.”
It worked.
First came the good treats – the ones my human rations like they’re hand-rolled in gold dust. Then came a cracker with peanut butter, generously applied. I own this man.
Then it was time to test the limits of his guilt. I let out a whimper that can only be described as Oscar-worthy, and plopped down in front of the stove like a Victorian orphan gazing into a bakery window.
Snack Dad caved instantly, reaching for the eggs. Five minutes later, I was delicately dining on a freshly scrambled, fluffed-to-perfection egg. Served warm. In my favorite dish. He even blew on it first.
Then – panic. “Don’t tell your mom,” he whispered, scrubbing the pan like it was a crime scene. Double rinse. Febreze. Eggshells in the outside trash. He even wiped down the counter like he was erasing fingerprints.
He thinks he got away with it.
But she’ll know. Because later this evening, there will be… repercussions. And I, of course, will maintain my composure and act innocent while slowly repositioning myself downwind.
I may have collapsed into a nap, but it was filled with tragic sighs directly under the ceiling fan, where the breeze could carry my sorrow throughout the house.
Then, suddenly, she was back. I launched myself like a furry cannonball. She smelled like orchids. And chicken salad.
She said I was a good girl. Well. Obviously.
To all my fellow dogs who have been left behind in the name of meetings, errands, or the mysterious and infuriating “quick trip” – stay strong.
And if all else fails? Look really, really sad. You’ll get the good snacks.
