I never had children. I say this with great personal satisfaction because I feel I have saved the world from a host of misery, not only from me, but from my unborn children as well. My Beloved has a friend who maintains they all come out more or less the same by the time they’re forty, but I still maintain there are serious flaws in my parenting techniques.
For instance, I feed Riley has breakfast every morning. Or, I try. Before Annie came, Riley was a self-feeder. We loaded his dish whenever it seemed empty and he disappeared into the laundry room when the mood to eat struck. He could not eat during laundry day because there are huge, noisy machines in there that come after him, but then, there were days when Riley had difficulty going through the kitchen because the dishwasher would attack. Annie joined our family, and we fed them both at will. About two months into this feeding schedule the dogs ran completely out of food, and Nancy began calculating how many cups of food a dog would have to eat a day to run dry in the allotted time schedule. She calculated Annie was eating about 12 cups of food a day.
This is not the recommended dosage for a 41 pound dog.
This is, in fact, six times the recommended dosage for a 41 pound dog.
So we measured their food out into dishes and fed them individually.
We feed them individually because when Annie came to us she was half-naked and covered with open, weeping scratches. We assumed she had been used as a bait dog, but it turns out she is allergic to something dog food. Specifically, Riley’s dog food. Also Riley’s dog food was designed to control his weight (he takes after his mothers in that respect) and the vet suggested this might not be the best thing for a hyperactive puppy. So we bought her bags of dog food that talked lovingly of sweet potatoes and bison and such on the package, bragged NO CORN, and sells on the open market for about the same price per ounce as gold.
We gave her 2 cups of food a day plus all she could beg.
Annie became our constant companion. I love you, I love, she said, Are you really going to eat that? Because it just so happens, I love that….
Riley had a different response altogether.
His response was sheer horror. You expect me to eat in front of you? On your schedule? I can’t. I mean….I just can’t. And he went belly-up on the sofa and staged a sleep-in.
Annie, in the meantime, not being a stupid dog, determined that we feed both her and Riley at the same time in separate dishes. Her food smells better, tastes better and cost more per pound than steak, but a dog dedicated to the wholesale consumption of food can empty a cup of dog food placed in a dish in roughly 37 seconds: and then she just happened to rush by to see what might be in Riley’s dish.
All of his food was there, actually, because Riley is a slow, methodical eater. His eating technique involves taking no more than five and no less than three kernels of dog food delicately in his mouth, carrying them into the living room, spitting them out onto the floor and then eating each individual kernel before he returned to the bowl for more.
Each time he returned to his bowl there was a little black dog licking the bottom of it.
This lead the fights, because while Riley cannot be rushed to eat, it was, after all, his food.
This evolved, gradually, to Cheryl and Nancy placing Annie’s food inside a toy, which she has to chase around the house, repeatedly knocking over in order to get her food. This slows her down, at least. Riley is fed in his dish by my side, so I can protect his food, should an emergency nap strike him mid-dinner.
In the beginning, to acclimate him to our new schedule, I fed him by hand, 3-4 kernels per handful.
Annie would stand a safe distance away, her head cocked to one side, her thoughts printed in a marque across her forehead: You NEVER do that for me…
Over time Riley had adjusted to having his dinner on the floor next to my chair, but he is still not a dog who adapts readily to violent change. His dish on the floor by Nancy’s chair, for instance, throws him completely off.
Breakfast, however. Breakfast is a problem.
Part of the problem is that after a long, hard nap on the hard bedroom floor, Riley needs a restorative meditation on the couch. This is usually when Cheryl is sitting in her chair, saying, “Riley, Riley come–Riley, come eat breakfast…” His tail thumps. Often that is the only part of the dog that can move.
But eventually he will come over, stopping to s-t-r-e-t-c-h once on his long journey (seven feet) to my chair. He then self-positions himself between my knees, and I give him a massage, chunking his chest and shoulders while revving him up with a pep talk. “You can do this, Rile–eat your breakfast!” And I break into a rousing chorus of Eye of the Tiger.
I know I have him when he picks out three kernels of dog food and spits them out on the floor.
I borrowed my sister’s son, once. His birth dipped me into a brief period of baby-envy, and I was still contemplating my rapidly aging egg supply when he attained the Age of ‘No’. I took him to my house, which was an hour and a half from my sister’s house. I asked him what he wanted for dinner.
He said, “I wanna go home, see my mommy and daddy.”
This was to become an recurring theme for our evening.
I cooked that child four different dinners, having been promised in advance that he really liked that particular thing until, of course, it appeared on his plate. Immediate change of heart. More comments about ‘see my mommy and daddy…’
I only have about four things I can cook, so this kid was in serious trouble.
I did the only thing a self-respecting, dedicated Aunt could do: I took him back home to see his mommy and daddy.
If I had had a less-returnable child, however, I suspected s/he would have ended up much like Riley who–even skipping the occasional meal because he can’t be bothered–is gradually developing a physique and workout program much like mine.
If that dog didn’t wag his tail he’d never get any exercise at all.
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