We’re out of dog biscuits.
No, I mean, we’re OUT of DOG biscuits. Cookies. Snackies. Num nums. Call them whatever you want, doesn’t change the fact that the jar is EMP-TY.
The WideEyedHousehold economy runs on milkbones. I don’t want to hear a lot of noise about dogs should listen. They listen just fine when they want to. And when they don’t want to, I rattle the cookie jar lid, sharpens their hearing right up.
I carry a pocketful of cookies pretty much all the time. Dogs are less apt to be nervy when there’s a pocketful of cookies around.
But we ran out. No Cheerios to replace them. No Cheez-its, chips, or peanut-butter-stuffed-pretzels. Nothing. The WideEyedSpouse and I are on our own. I opened the fridge, hardboil some eggs? Too messy. Cut some cheese chunks? No, I’ll end up eating it all linty from my pocket and everything. Arugula? That’s just panic talking.
My eye fell on the bin of dog dinner kibble on the bottom shelf of the pantry. The dogs like it there so they can hang out near it. Sniff it. Stand near it. Lick the edges. I had a sneaky, underhanded, dishonest thought about that kibble and the empty dog cookie jar. No one was around – Miss Tibbit was upstairs policing Ancient Wiggins the Cat, Hamish was policing Miss Tibbit.
Slowly, quietly, so so so so carefully I scooped a handful of kibble and threw it in the cookie jar. Sound travels faster than the speed of light in the WideEyedHousehold and after an ultradense clatter of dog feet on the steps, they stood, waiting, staring at the cookie jar. Glancing at me.
“Who wants a cookie?” I asked. Hamish ooched his butt forward and Tibbit sat firmly. I lifted the cookie jar lid, selected two pieces of boring, everyday, nothing special dinner kibble and flipped them in the air. “Snap!” Snap!” They trotted off to harass the cat some more.
I smiled the Grinch’s smile.