Why I never get invited to block parties
Apollo’s been looking exceptionally mangy lately. It happens whenever he’s been getting into the foods he shouldn’t have, which is pretty much all of them.
I do the best I can, but with the household we have, it is pretty much impossible to keep all foods out of reach of all animals at all times. There are dogs eating, kids snacking, people munching at all hours of the day, and all it takes is one forgotten nugget for Apollo to go temporarily bald. This despite the fact that he feasts on venison and duck every day. It’s never enough.
The dogs never leave food out to be stolen, so I don’t worry about them. My husband, well, he’s 50/50 on whether he puts dishes away. My kids know the rules about putting things up when they are done with them, but being 6 and 4, well, things happen. It is just one of a long list of ways in which I am not perfect.
Tonight I saw Apollo’s head peeking over the dining room table a few minutes after the kids had departed, and I spun around in time to see the remnants of a fish stick disappearing over the precipice of the table. With the clock ticking and only seconds to interrupt the ingestion of the time bomb, I sprung into action.
Have you ever tried to catch a cat with contraband? It’s impossible. Not to say I didn’t try. I ran, I blocked, around the table, up the stairs, behind the couch, eventually resorting to lobbing socks trying to get him to drop the stupid thing. Of course once he wedged himself under the couch, he had the 3 uninterrupted seconds it took to gulp it down, that, or he left a half eaten fishstick under the couch. I suppose I will know for sure one way or another in the next day or two.
Now while this was all going on, my neighbor had invited herself over (as she is wont to do) for a snack, and was watching this with interest from the kitchen. In the heat of the moment I had entirely forgotten she was there. Having spared her the long and sordid medical histories of my animals, she had no idea Apollo had food allergies and was completely flummoxed as to why I was yelling “DROP IT, YOU SON OF A BISCUIT!” or something along those lines while attempting in vain to tackle him.
I came downstairs a couple minutes later, winded and annoyed. “You really wanted your son to finish his dinner, eh?” she said knowingly. Then she leaned in. “It’s just a fish stick hon. It won’t kill him.”
And I leaned back and said, ” But I might I know.”
