Recently Rudy heard a rumor that’s brought us both a certain amount of pain.
“I’m sure of it,” he insists. “That dog gets a treat…just for eating.”
His eyes widened, sort of like Madame Blavatsky’s, and he fixed me with that look I know he thinks will hypnotize me one day.
Then he rose up, like a yeti–a trick he’s been overplaying lately. It cracks me up, when it doesn’t freak me out, and he’s been milking it.
“Think about it,” he said, and sauntered off.
“It’s a great idea,” he repeats. “You know how ‘rewards’ oriented I am. Imagine how you’d feel if I STOPPED EATING.”
“Like that would happen,” I snorted.
“Well it could.”
It seemed as good a time as any to remind him that he gets plenty of treats, for tough challenges like coming inside, waiting in the car, and being a good boy. And in spite of that, he still felt compelled to break into the glove compartment and eat two weeks worth of treats.
“It’s been a long winter,” he sighed.