As I eat my dinner at the kitchen table, I hear the click-clack-click-clack of Indy's claws tapping the linoleum as he scours the perimeter of the room looking for crumbs and dropped ingredients from the meal's preparation. Upon finding nothing in the tidy woman's kitchen, he heads for his food bowl. He stops in front of it, sees the same pile of tan kibbles he saw the day before and the day before that (and the day before that one). He looks up at me as if to say, "What? Have I not been a good pet?"
I say to him, "Oy. This again? What about a little gratitude?"
And he says, "Hey, I'm just sayin'. Haven't I given you years of cuddles, play, and hilarity? And THIS is what you have to give in return? A couple cups of stale pebbles from a 2-month-old bag of discount dog food?"
"It wasn't discounted. I paid full price."
He seems irked. "C'mon, throw a dog a bone!"
I explain, "Bones could kill you. They can splinter and puncture your internal organs leading to a painful death."
"I know," he sighs. "I was just testing you." His shoulders drop and I hear him say under his breath, "We all have our vices."
Then, Indy looks down at his bowl and resigns to his fate. He grabs a mouthful of food, chews it with his mouth open, and forces himself to gulp the mass down.
I turn back to the table and eat my dinner in silence.