No Turkey Required

Bela, so hound-ly

sleeps, so soundly

her quiet the call of cease fire.

The peace of the year

churned itself into cheer

and spills over, out from my heart.

Contentment came slowly,

as I became homely

the cup appeared rather full.

Thus, in gratitude's name,

to the day, says this dame,

I thank Thanksgiving itself for what it gave me.

The Culinary Adventures of Miss Bela Green

She's had tofu.

Meringues.

Curried tuna.

A taste of every Ben & Jerry's on the market.

Don't-matter-that-she-just-ate-hers, my breakfast. That whole "leggo my eggo" phrase don't mean shit around here.

She can hear me chewing RAW ALMONDS from like 50 feet away. They are possibly her favorite snack. (and definitely mine)

In her first training class, we were taught that cheese was a high-value reward -- meaning you could get the dogs to do things for it that they wouldn't do say, for, a Milk Bone. The teacher used Kraft singles and Easy Cheese...not the highest quality cheeses, but yes ,the students loved them. Today, I sliced off a rather large chunk of a $14 per pound cheese I picked up at Whole Foods. I shook my head in shame as I handed it to her.

I have limits, obviously. When I dropped a $3 caramel the other day, she came running. I screeched like a wild animal when I heard it hit the floor! She was so freaked out by my reaction she halted herself from the retrieval. Thank God. I brushed that bitch off and ate it minutes later.

But I do revel in feeding her. Whereas it used to be a rarity that she got a bite of my dinner, it is now the norm.  She doesn't even bother begging anymore. She sits. Quietly, in the vicinity of my eating, and just waits. She knows what's coming.

The first time I noticed my ability to attain selflessness in satiety, I was feeding tiny Olivia some pumpkin ice cream. It was years ago, on a rather warm fall day. We were perched on the porch swing. I had only purchased a SCOOP, people. In a cup. Old lady style. When she climbed up next to me, I felt I was supposed to ask (as an aunt) if she'd like a taste. Well, the little gal liked it. Such that she stayed there, poised, mouth open, just waiting for me to contine spooning it in. She was so polite in her open-mouthed state, that I couldn't even be annoyed with her. She was gentle, my kin, and just really loving the ice cream! So I shoveled bites in my mouth as fast as I could, hoping I'd run out before I had too much more to offer the little darling. As the ice cream melted, though, so did my heart. I began taking smaller bites. I offered her tidbits every 20 seconds instead of 45. And so we sat there, and shared one small scoop of pumpkin ice cream.

Thus, life has taught me how love can be expressed through feeding.

I like to embolden taste buds, to present new textures and tooth-worthy experiences.

For a dog that is as food-obsessed as Bela, it seems only right.

Am I disappointed in myself for this development? Yes; I won't lie. I feel a little bit wierd, a little bit wasteful.

I reflect on a woman who may have inspired my recoil. I used to work at a drive-through coffee shop. We were a tiny hut of coffee creation, and the cars would line up outside tenfold. We could see into entire vehicles from our to-go window, and it seemed pretty personal. Cars are like people's portable homes. There was a lady who drove through with a german sheperd. She got a large mocha each and every day, topped with a mountain of whip. She would take the cup from us and then lose no time. Still in line, whether the cars were backed up or not, she would peel off the lid and offer the top of the mountainous whip to the dog. He would lean over, lap it up, and offer it back to her. She would then take a biiiiggggass sip. I was horrified. Daily.

I try to keep her 'human food' consumption hidden behind the doors of our home. That said, things may derail, for sure. In the present, when I pop over to the bakery and get a croissant for myself, I get dog biscuit for her. If one day, I skip the biscuit and I split the croissant (one bite me, one bite her), then we may have a problem.

(For the record - though - she didn't get any of that cinnamon roll.)

A Letter to B

I'm sorry for any time you feel alone.

I'm sorry for every time you're dreaming of ball-chasing and you're on the couch instead. 

I'm sorry for not letting you chew rawhides around-the-clock.

I'm sorry for making you live indoors.

I'm sorry for adopting you in 2, and reducing you to a 1-parent household.

I'm sorry I haven't written a post in more than two months. I've been obsessed with myself.

I'm so happy you have the disposition you have.

I'm so happy when I wake up and remember you exist!

I'm so happy every single time I walk through the door and find you there.

I'm so happy you trust me.

I'm so grateful to every friend or family member that has babysat you.

I'm so grateful to Jimmy, who runs you with care.

I'm so grateful for a job that provides me with the ability to provide for you.

I'm so grateful for the other dog-mothers I've met because of you.

I'm so grateful for the way you care about me.

I'm so grateful Tennessee shipped you to Chicago, to Anti-Cruelty, and that life found me there when you were.

Women tell me, "When you have a baby, they replace the dog. They just do. The love not only gets transferred, but much bigger."

B -- I don't believe them.

My relationship with you is thus far the most defining of my life. Caring for you is essential to my heart. Buying you things helps. Feeding you, exhibition. Petting you, the payoff.

I get it. I get it. I get it.

I finally get L O V E.