Mmmm, tastes like chicken fingers.
“Wait!,” said the receptionist. “Stop right there for a minute.”
Huh? Great. What did I do now?
Nothing, that’s what. But why is it, I wonder, that it is so difficult to look innocent of misdeeds, especially when you really are.
“Your dog is so handsome,” says the gatekeeper of the assisted living facility lobby. “I have dog cookies behind the desk here. Can he have one?”
Oh, that.
Micron, who was under my control and care mere seconds ago, has alerted to the one word that means so much to him.
He looks up at me, then attempts to rush the nice lady who’s waving a treat at him.
“Did ya hear that, Food Lady?” says Micron. “I’ll be going home with the new cookie lady now. It’s been fun and all, but, you know. Cookies.”
“Mike-Mike!” I cry out his cutesy nickname in spite of his dropping two points from the Adorability Meter as he Baltos me across the lobby. “Slow down, Mike! Ok, fine. Sure, but he needs to Sit for the cookie. When he’s all excited like this, you’ll want to feed him like a…”
“Ow”, says the receptionist.
“Horse.” I say. “You’ll want to feed him like a horse. Flat, open palm.”
Horse. Donkey. Dire Wolf. Land Shark. Whatever he reminds me of during these food motivated moments, it’s a lesson learned. My dog will not only turn allegiance for a dog cookie, he will do so with great passion.
Go. Do. Be Dog. 