grocery-shopped last night. Braunschweiger was on sale and I nearly put a couple of chubs in my cart. But then I remembered: no pooch to give it to. I cooked salmon earlier in the week and the process ended sooner than usual. I used to set aside and store the skins for the pooch. Now the skins are just waste matter. Same for the French toast I made. I used to cook and serve the last little bit of batter to Bowser. Every meal was planned with the canine in mind.
This wasn’t always the case. Before she entered her geriatric phase, the pooch had no trouble eating her dog food. But slowly, food became a challenge, and I did everything I could—short of playing that airplane game that fools children but doesn’t impress dogs—to entice her to eat. Asiago cheese. Sardines in olive oil. Pork pâté. Smoked salmon. Pheasant. Anything aged, anything “stinky” to add to her raw buffalo, emu, and venison.
Now our refrigerator and freezer have an abundance of space. Now I can cook with spices and sauces that I’d previously avoided for the pooch’s sake. Now I can take back the time it took for her meal productions—which included staying with her while she nosed through her bowl and applauding her efforts if she actually ate. So many adjustments to make—to my grocery shopping, my mindset, my routine.
SHE was my routine. And now she isn’t.
[Pictured: The pooch with a new, temporary playmate—a kitten we found beneath a highway bridge. The pooch is not only displaying her “Happy Tail”—the tail curled upward whenever her mood was upbeat—she’s also smiling. A rare occasion when she didn’t mind having her photo taken. Oh, Happier Days!]
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