Feeding the Dog We’re having the kitchen remodeled. A day spent while the kitchen is being remodeled is one you don’t have to spend in Purgatory - I have since collected quite a few indulgences. David, Christine’s brother, I hate to say my brother-in-law, since the term does not adequately convey our relationship, David, who has just retired from the fire department, and who, when taking the fireman’s entrance physical examination, broke the speed record for grabbing a fire hose and ascending a two story ladder, David, who single handedly, and I mean all alone, climbed a ladder with a good sized Anderson window in his hands and installed it on the second story of our house, is doing the work as part of his new home construction/ renovation business with the mutual understanding that he work us into his schedule. This is why we have a remodeling job that only seems as long as the siege of Leningrad. Nothing is in its proper place, and as I go through the no longer routine motions of feeding the dog I spin pirouettes and figure eights, which if accomplished with a basketball, would land me an Allan Iverson type NBA contract. First task is to retrieve Bud’s dish from the deck; that has not changed. Go to refrigerator and get can of “Bud’s Delight” dog food - actually, any food is “Bud’s Delight”. The dog eats peaches, apples, pears, figs, lettuce, green beans from the garden, tomatoes, citrus. Now, have you ever known a dog to eat citrus? Bud does. We are careful not to gorge him with too many corncobs, watermelon rinds, cantaloupe skins, and like dainties. Bud was ten years old when he came into our lives. Christine assented to take him, virtually sight unseen, about an hour ahead of the pound. His former family was breaking up, house sold, etc. So it was that Bud came unto us. He’s 13 now and still a handsome creature. As I do the light fandango with dog dish in hand Bud lies on his dark blue bed looking as close to a shadow as any 65 pound black Lab can look. Most of Bud has disappeared. He is totally relaxed. He has learned the new routine much quicker than I. At first he would get to his feet and follow me around as I danced with his dish. He just watches now, as with dish in hand, I move to the refrigerator, which by some quirk of the remodeling crew, is somewhat close to its usual spot. Aced! Aced by Christine! There’s not enough dog food left to make a Bud sized meal. I place dish and can on a board covering a large plastic container which is holding torn pieces of cardboard set for the dumpster. Dish and can are at rest and I am now on a two fold mission: Obtain spoon to scoop and mix Bud’s food and get new can of food at base of cellar stairs. Spoon firmly in hand, headed towards basement stairs when headquarters interrupts my confident stride with an urgent message, “You’ll need to use a can opener”, this occasions an immediate right foot pivot inspired by years of watching Earl “The Pearl” Monroe or “Black Jesus” as his contemporaries named him. I retreat for the can opener and in no time am standing on the same spot I occupied, not 10 seconds ago. Now we’re making progress. I proceed to what is hopefully my final fetch while Bud lies passively, a mere shadow, a fractional essence, a dog in neutral. I descend into the basement and retrieve a can of “Bud’s Delight”. I ascend, light footed and light hearted with the warm assurance that I may now proceed with the actual “Scooping of the Food”, a ceremony which causes a stir on the dark blue bed. Food in dish, now to add water, I take a step towards the sink. Gottcha! The sink isn’t there. In fact the nearest running water to be had is from the faucets of the downstairs bathroom, “Your choice, Sir, you may use either the sink, which you will find much to shallow for kitchen use, or the bathtub which you will find most ungainly. Have a good day, sir.” I go for ungainly. Bud’s dish in hand, food properly moistened, now to add the dry ingredients and mix. But wait; saw dust and debris have precluded keeping the dry dog food bag in the kitchen. The dry food now lies next to the wood burning stove. I do a tight 180, like an NFL wide-out running a hook pattern, deserting the kitchen for the living room I place the dish on the floor, creating a stirring from the dark blue bed. With great restraint Bud lies almost motionless. Ears up, but just a bit, no full-blown commitment yet, head still on bed, but cocked, ever so slightly. One last swing from the living room through the sliding door and onto the deck, dish in hand all the while; a lively waiter with a dog in his wake. I place the dish upon the deck, and, voila, dinner is served. But first Bud gets to lick the spoon.