Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Siblings ...

For every "Hey, cut it out, doofus" I have at least one "Woof, get away from my food dish" or "Hiss, get off my couch".

Now, onto dessert
Feeding time at the zoo is, well, a zoo. Approach Zoetje's food dish at your own risk. I have tried a variety of locations for the cat's dish that will be inaccessible to the dog  but easily accessible to Ada --  poor, sweet 18-year-old Ada, who doesn't jump quite like she used to. After a couple of days cats on the  -- eww --  kitchen table,  I found a shelf by the cellar stairs that has worked okay so far. (Alas, Scruffy still sits on the table, waiting for food. All those years I've spent training cats not to go on tables and counters?  Back to the drawing board.)  I open all the cans at the same time and plate the contents simultaneously while Zoetje, with her low growl,  stands guard to keep the cats from getting too close. First, I give Zoetje her food, but I make sure the cats see theirs, too. Then, during that 3.5 second window when Z's face is in her food, I quick-as-a-bunny bring the cats' food to a shelf in the cellar next to the stairs. I count on out-of-sight-out-of-mind, because there's simply no place in our house that works to keep Z away from the food. She usually heads straight for the cellar stairs when she'd done with her meal. Agent 96 has been known to feed the cats in complete silence before Z wakes up. Those are the only days the cats get all the cat food.

Dogs are like teenage boys in the housekeeping department, too, and the house looks more like a frat house than a private home. 96 walks in from school, and within a minute, his jacket is shrugged off his shoulders and the phone's tossed onto a chair. I spy Agent 98's bowling ball in the middle of the living room floor, and ask him, the only bowler in the family, to put it away. "I don't know how it got there, Mom. It was there when I got home from school". It wasn't me: I know for a fact that I don't allow bowling in the house. Breathe, Linda. Just walk away.

So I pop into the kitchen, and there's Zoetje, eating a stick of butter. A wrapped stick of butter. And of course she just left some uneaten wrapper bits there on the floor next to the paper towels she's snatched from the rubbish barrel. The rest -- well I guess I'll clean them up the next time we go for our walk.

Wait. Did I just say dog ate a quarter of a pound of butter? Maybe this time the boys take her for her walk.

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