Gracie (expectantly): (Gimme something!!)
Me: “Go away. Raus! That’s German for get outta here. My dad used to say that all the time to our dogs when I was a kid. It means get in your box.” (For nine of Gracie’s 10 years, the referenced ‘box’ is nothing more than the corner where her puppy crate used to be located. She acts as if we can’t get her when she lies there, like there’s some invisible barrier between her and us.)
Gracie (clearly ignoring me): (Gimme something! Two somethings!)
Me (measured tones): “No. Get in your box, leave me alone, you’ve already had a you-know-what and you’re not getting anything else. Nothing else, not today.”
Gracie (abashed, lying down at my feet): (Well, you’re not yelling. There’s that…)
Me: “The reason you weigh 85 pounds is that you’re unbearable when you’ve decided it’s time for one, and we disagree on that subject. That’s when you’re a real pain. Like right this minute.”
Gracie (lying with her muzzle on my feet): (One what?)
Me: “Don’t be obtuse, and stop trying to manipulate me. You know one what. Mom thinks it’s my fault you’re fat, and she’s right, only because I have to be with you 9 hours more each day than she does. You are the gaping maw, the bottomless pit, the black hole. You could eat an entire 17 pound bag of dog chow, throw up, and eat half of another. I’m really sorry you’re hungry all the time, but I’m not giving you a treat.”
Gracie (hope renewed): (You said “treat.”)
Me (sighing): “OK. But here’s the deal. You gotta take it outside, and you gotta stay outside for at least 15 minutes. Deal?”
Gracie (rejoicing): (Deal! Deal! I get something to take outside. Deal! Deal!)
I let her out with her biscuit. One minute later she’s pawing at the door.
Me (letting her in): “In your box, liar.”
Gracie (slinking): (You’re mean.)
* * *
