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Canine cuisine can’t be just anything

Canine cuisine can’t be just anything

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I have mentioned my dearly departed best friend before, but if you’ve forgotten, he was a furry little Cairn terrier we called Gus. Like his distant cousin Toto, he liked to travel to far away lands. Part of the problem was the house we lived in didn’t have a fence, which made his escapes much easier. We finally put one up after the last adventure he went on, when he was found by a nice family who changed his name to Bosley and gave him a green scarf to wear. But I rescued him from that plight.

My friend Fred, who is to be married this year for the first time in his young 71 years to a lovely woman named Robin, will inherit through the sacred union a Cairn who is the spitting image of Gus and who goes by the name of Tugboat.

For the past few months, Tugboat went through some health issues that had Fred and Robin pretty worried. The most serious symptom was that he just stopped eating. Fortunately, after many treatments from the vet, Tugboat is doing much better, and his appetite has almost returned to normal.

On the last visit to the vet, he told Robin she should try feeding Tugboat chicken. So she went to the store later that day and came home with a heavy sack. Fred saw her put the sack on top of the counter in the kitchen and it made a loud bang when she dropped it there, so he went over and took a look inside, where he saw about thirty cans. He pulled one out to see what it was. The conversation went something like this:

Fred: Robin, what’s all this?

Robin: It’s food for Tugboat. I told you the vet said he could have chicken.

Fred kept pulling out more cans.

Fred: Then why did you buy all this tuna?

Robin: That’s not tuna. It’s chicken.

Fred: I hate to tell you but Chicken of the Sea isn’t chicken. It’s tuna.

Robin: Oh no!

Fred: Do you like tuna?

Robin: Not really.

Fred: Neither do I, and I’m pretty sure Tugboat isn’t going to like it either.

Fred opened a can, put it in Tugboat’s bowl and set it on the floor. He walked over, took one whiff and quickly left the room.

I do happen to like tuna however, and offered Fred 15 cents a can. He’s considering it.

It seems all the pets I’ve had throughout my life had at least one strange eating habit. My first dog as a boy was a Kerry Blue terrier named Blacky, who once ate one of Dad’s socks, or rather swallowed it whole. The operation to remove it was a success and Dad had a matched set again.

Then there was Sam, the Chesapeake Bay retriever, who no matter what he ate, always got carsick. He would at least gag a few times, which about one out of four times gave me a chance to pull the car over and get him outside.

Gus loved steak, but who doesn’t. Once though I found him in our backyard with a live possum in his mouth. He shook it a few times and thankfully dropped it when I yelled at him.

Our black cat Fritz had a strange habit of jumping up on our kitchen counter and taking bites out of however many tomatoes he could get at. He didn’t like to eat them, just bite into them. He was a sneaky one. I loved him a lot, just never trusted him much.

We are without a dog now but I think I’d like to have a Corgi some day. There is one who lives across the hall whose name is Pebble. He finally grew into his ears. I’m not sure what Corgi’s like to eat. But since the Queen has them I imagine they have pretty refined tastes.

So canned tuna might be a letdown.

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