The Wrong Treat

Kandi, my mother’s dog, stands in the doorway, staring at me. Puzzled, I stare back, going over in my mind what her issue might be. She’s old, 13, but still smart, an Aussie shepherd. She may leave her food because she’s picky but this is unusual. I’ve forgotten something, but what?

My mother is in the hospital and my Dad, at 91 years old, cannot take care of the cats or dog or cook for himself. My mother’s instructions for the dog include laying a treat on her morning breakfast.

Then, I remember. The treat was specific, a strip of soft beef jerky. I dropped a little biscuit on top instead. Kandi is very picky and little biscuits do not cut it. That is what her look says, you gave me the wrong treat, get with the program, you incompetent moron.

I apologize, grab the jerky, remove the biscuit and lay the jerky over her breakfast. She follows me, settles down and slowly picks her way through her food.

The cats are less trouble than she is.

The picky, picky dog
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