Conventional wisdom says I was the one who lived to eat, and Kemba’s the one who lives to fetch. That may have been true at one time, but I’ve been keeping my eye on the K-Dawg from up here, and you can’t tell me he’s not totally dialed in to whatever’s going on in the kitchen. That fridge door opens, and wham! He’s scooting over to it — like Kramer. Mrs. B’s making lunch? There’s good old Kemba, at her feet, transfixed by her every move. He stares up at her, hoping . . . and yes, she’ll throw him the occasional bone, in a manner of speaking — a baby carrot, or a small sliver of cucumber. Or when the B-Man is eating at the counter? Kemba’s camped down below, patiently waiting for the tiniest piece of pretzel to hit the floor. Sometimes if they leave a plate unguarded, he might risk a nibble at a corner of a chicken salad sandwich — but he’s so damn tentative about it. So he always gets caught. And winds up with nothing. Way too cautious. Drives me nuts.
Man, put me in the same situation, and that entire sandwich is history! Oh, sure, I’d employ a bit of gamesmanship from time to time. Like, if there were friends over for brunch, I’d locate the newbie, who’d mistake me for just some cute pup, and not the ruthless eating machine I was. He’d turn his head for just a sec, and boom! No more bagel. But for the most part, I favored the straightforward, aggressive approach. Ever hear Pete Rose’s philosophy on hitting? See the ball, hit the ball? Exactly. See the food, grab the food. Works for me.
The Roof Rack Report used to appear regularly on Mondays. Now it appears once in a blue moon, when Beagle Man deigns to give me some space . . .
Thanks Hank! This is one of the best Beagle Man reports ever!! Mary
Appreciate it, Mary!
I don’t know exactly what it is about dogs, but I’ve yet to meet one who didn’t instantly size me up as an easy mark and plant themselves under my feet at the table, waiting for those certain to come good scraps. I’m just a born sucker for those pleading eyes!