I don’t give my dogs enough credit. Honestly, they drive me insane a good majority of the time, as I’m sure anyone can attest who follows me on Twitter or is my friend on Facebook. But if I didn’t have them around constantly, underfoot and underhand, I’m pretty sure I would go stir-crazy. I love my dogs – they’re my furry babies, my therapists, my source of love and aggravation when my husband’s not home. And you wouldn’t think it to look at them, but their needs are actually very specific – and Tucker the Princess of All Things, will not let a minute go by without informing me, constantly, of how things are supposed to be. For example, we add a little bit of vegetable oil to her food every morning, to help with digestion and cut down on shedding. She will not touch her food, much less eat it, unless there is oil on that food. I’m not kidding. She will stand there and stare at me until oil is mixed in, and then daintily chomp away. Mac, my once-upon-a-time hunting dog, will not go out in the wet yard to relieve himself. If it’s raining, you can forget it. The priss. And Gunny… well, Gunny is a whole thing unto himself. Any dog that is two feet tall and can jump four feet up into my open office window, flat-footed, is a special little dog indeed.
boonie foodie 