Three Humans, Two Dogs, One Cat

The worst part about being sick is the pity I get from the cat.  When I am crated, she knows I can't harass her and she keeps walking by the crate, very slowly, just taunting me.  She looks at me as if to say, "What have you gotten yourself into now" and there isn't a darn thing I can do about it.  Just wait cat, I, Tasha the great and noble protector of all, will be sprung free soon.  Then if I get off of these drugs that make me feel so dopey, I can chase you again.  While I lay here all funky on drugs, I dream of the good old days when being a dog meant just that - being a dog.  There used to be this treasure chest of fun in the kitchen.  It had the best things in there.  Left over discarded food that made up a complete smorgasbord of delectable things to scarf down.  I could knock the chest over on its side (come to find it is called a trashcan) and have everything displayed for my viewing pleasure.  I could eat the peeled shells from the shrimp from last night's dinner, the potato skins, and the bone from Dad's steak.  I could lick the blood off the tray that the ground beef was on….yummy.  You name it, I ate it.  There were fun things to chew apart like used tissues, and old shoe and a small cardboard box.  But like all good things, this too came to an end.

I heard the key in the front door and ran to my bed and laid down quickly.  They didn't see me make the mess, so maybe they won't know it was me.  I usually get in big trouble for this kind of mess because I am supposed to know better, but hey, come on now…..its trash….I'm a dog…..get it?  The usual reprimand comes, "Tasha, bad dog", in a stern voice by Lisa.  I appropriately hang my head, tail between my hind legs looking reprimanded, but inside I'm thinking, "Boy that was good and worth every bit of this scolding". 

Believe it or not, there is one thing that was even better than going through the trashcan.  Once, Dad, who never cooks, got bold and made chocolate chip cookies. (This is because he gets yelled at by Mom for eating raw cookie dough).  Nothing makes a house smell better than homemade chocolate chip cookies.  My mouth was drooling just from the smell.  I put Pavlov's dog to shame. I really didn't see anything wrong with what happened next because Dad is pretty good about sharing.  He always gives me a bite of whatever he has.   I am just not allowed to beg and anything on the floor is mine.  So what difference did it make if I helped myself?  I live here too.  Dad took a tray out of the oven and these delectable treasures of cookies were on it.  He put another tray in (that one could be for him) and went upstairs into the den to do some paperwork.  Mmmmmmm….. Me and the cookies.  Let me hoist myself up, paws on the counter, reach with right paw…..and stretch the tongue.  Yum, yum, yum, scarf, scarf, scarf,…..wait….. remember to chew…don't swallow cookie whole….use left paw….get other side of tray….breath…don't forget to breath…..yum, yum,….more scarf…..scarf….gobble, gobble….there - all done.  My tray is finished…..24 cookies in 30 seconds….that must be some kind of record. Enter me in a contest!  Wow!!!  Dad is a great cook.  He should cook more often. 

Then, just like the trash can incident, too much of a good thing, is not a good thing.  Dad came down and saw the empty tray.  He didn't even thank me for not having to wash it.  It was sparkling clean.  You would never know there were cookies on it 30 seconds ago.  He just did his usual tirade, similar to Mom's, "Tasha bad dog".  But, you guessed it.  It was worth every bit of the scolding.  Mmmmmmm…..cookies…..treasures.