For the most part I can hold it together. I’m not overly emotional and I’m never particularly mushy about much, but I do have an Achilles heel and he stands on all fours. My friends and family constantly make fun of me for doting over my dog. Chorz, as I so affectionately nicknamed him for whatever inexplicable reason, can get away with just about anything. My composed self goes out the window as I speak in high pitched voices and use words like ‘cutie pie.’ It’s really disturbing but I can’t help it. Dogs win me over.
Keep this in mind when I tell you about the coagulated white gob of goo that I found in the middle of our carpet this past week. Immediately I knew it was Nico and I worried that he may be sick, but what the hell could he have eaten. Then I rushed back into the kitchen, with a burst of insight suddenly flitting in my head. No way, he couldn’t have. But right there on the kitchen counter was a huge pile of nothing, empty where I had left the cheese just moments ago.
Let me explain.
Nico had jumped up to the counter and grabbed the whole ring of cheese. The whole stinking, heavy, expensive ring of Spanish goat cheese. I’m not talking about those small rings you buy at the supermarket, I mean the big stuff, the ones that can probably replace the wheel of your car. Ok I’m exaggerating a little bit but you get the idea. The most frustrating part is that we went through all the trouble of wrapping and stashing this monstrosity in our suitcase, successfully avoiding the airport sniffing dogs, just so that our dog could enjoy the fruits of our labor. I had taken out the cheese moments earlier and cut only a sliver. The cheese is so intense you can only really have a little bit at a time. Trust me it stinks. The allure of the cheese was clearly too strong for our pup to handle and he had to have it, punishment be damned. He ate the whole thing in a matter of seconds and his stomach obviously couldn’t handle it and brought it right back up all over our rug and our hardwood floor and his new bed. Needless to say there was no more cheese and an hour of scrubbing the newly stained rug. I wasn’t happy.
You can see why it’s so impossibly difficult for me to be mad for too long. Maybe I’m the only one susceptible to his puppy dog eyes, but I doubt it. My father who hardly let’s his own children touch the food we bring back from Spain, preferring to ration it out so that every last morsel is enjoyed, forgave him rather quickly (after a small sentence in his kennel). Naturally we got over the fact that he ate the whole damn ring of cheese. He knows the good stuff.
