Picky eaters with sophisticated taste

Da Kid (Da Vet Tech) handed me a bottle of salad dressing the other day when he came home from work. He looked at me strangely when I crammed it into the kitchen cabinet where we keep other bottles that haven’t been opened yet, before suggesting I might want to take it back out and look at the label.

I did as suggested. I glanced at the bottle again quickly thinking Sizzlin’ Bacon? It sounded interesting, and then I noticed the label also said, Savory Sauce. Just as I was putting it back in the cabinet but this time in with unopened bottles of barbeque sauces, I froze when I happened to notice something else.

IAMS?

The salesman for one of the fancy dog foods Da Vet carries had come through. Before he left, he gave each of the employees a bottle of their newest product for owners who have dogs that are finicky eaters.

I looked at Da Kid. Da Kid looked at me, shrugged, and headed back out the door.

I’ve had dogs for as long as I can remember, but either we never had a finicky eater or my age has dimmed the memory. I put the food down, it disappears.

That doesn’t mean every dog has gobbled it down as if they were starving. Some ate reasonably, others — like Lucky (S.O.B.) Lab — did better with free-choice so they could nibble all day long. Tank (the Yellow Lab) used to be a nibbler like his father, until he learned with the arrival of The Wonderdog, a rescue, "You snooze, you lose!"

"I'm a thophthicated, picky eater. Cancha tell?"

But picky eaters? No. Never. Not a one.

Now, we have provided temporary care for a few that have been. The last one, Tyler — a mostly-paralyzed Chihuahua whose foster family was going out of town for a few days — arrived with everything he’d need while they were gone including his food: tiny tins of very expensive dog food that he might or might not deign to nibble on; cheddar cheese cubes, cooked and drained ground beef, and cooked and already cut into bite-sized chunks, boneless/skinless chicken breasts.

(The damned little monster eats better than we do, and he had the nerve . . . the audacity to growl at me and bite me TWICE when I presented him with his dog food instead of . . . But, that’s another story.)

Because of Da Kid’s job, we’re always getting samples of dog stuff in the mail, too. The one today was a "sophisticated dog food for sophisticated dogs," or at least that’s what the package said.

Tossing the box it came in into the trash, I put the packet in with samples of other dog food we've received that we keep in case we ever have to spike Tank or The Wonderdog's regular feed in order to try to get one of them to eat.

An hour or so later, I heard that sound. You know the one.

The Wonderdog had snagged the box out of the kitchen trash, and was now upchucking it all over the living room carpet.

"Yep," I thought, "that's my dogs: picky eaters with sophisticated tastes."