#76 PUPPY -- A HOT DOG

 “Let’s talk, Scooter.”

“About you hitting the concrete pillar while parking the car?”

“No.”

“About you getting out of the elevator on the wrong floor? Or that time you . . .”

“Scooter, stop! Let’s talk about the hot dog. I know it really tastes good, but it is really not good for you.

“Oh, really?”

“Did you know that the word “really” was first used in the 14th century to refer to the presence of Christ in the Eucharist? It derives from the old French reel, which came from the Latin realis, meaning “actual.” By the 15th century it was used more generally, and . . .”

“Like ‘hot dogs are really good’?” Scooter’s paw was begging.

“Like, by the 16th century it signaled surprise, or protest, and by 1815, a snarky question – as you did a moment ago. Interesting, don’t you think?

“Really? Let’s talk about the hot dog,” said he.

There was a summer picnic today among friends here in the apartment complex where we live. It was a beautiful day for it; sunshine and mild warmth. We Pines couldn’t attend, but Scooter and I did stop by and greet friends as we returned from picking up mail; ours, and that of a traveling friend.

“Does Scooter like hot dogs?” we were asked.

“Oh, my,” I thought, “Do little boys like to stand up to pee?” but I said, “He does!”

“One fell on the ground,” said the inquirer. “Hold on, I’ll get it for him.”

It was a big, beautiful, still slightly warm grilled hot dog. That fragrant hunk of pressed whatever was huge. It was rounder than a quarter coin, and as long as a dinner fork. Scooter and I agreed, it smelled heavenly.  

Scooter’s benefactor meant to hand the whole thing to Scooter who was “sitting pretty,” and already expressing “Oh thank you, thank you!”

“Oh no!” I said, putting my hand between the gift and the receiver. “He can’t have the whole thing at once.”

You might have read my blog about our amazing opposable thumbs (#75 A Woman’s Briefs). Now, mine, on my right hand, pressed against a small stack of mail held fast by my cooperating index finger. In my left hand I held a small package, more mail, and Scooter’s leash. Scooter dropped his front paws to the floor, stunned by my securing the warm, thick, marvelously greasy hot dog between my right ring and little fingers, turning my hand toward the floor hoping to spare my traveling friend’s mail from hot dog juice, and holding Scooter away from it with the command, “Leave it.” He got that command down pat when he was a puppy and took a steak off my unattended plate. That was (#26 PUPPY, September 26, 2020).

September 2020 — Little steak thief

Not easily, we delivered our friend’s mail, and made it home with the hot dog. Scooter watched as I cut his gift down the middle lengthwise, then into 1/8th inch slices that dropped into a small freezer container from which occasional bits will be offered as special treats. He got some as I worked away at it. Of course he did.

“Leave it,” he does

“Take it,” and of course he does

He’s really got those commands down pat. He still considers “Come” an option.