The City finally has the snow under control. A plow came down our street this morning, burying the cars that had been dug out over the past few days. And then there was the true measure that the hardships of the blizzard have come to an end: The Boy and I saw the first discarded chicken bone since the snow arrived.
It was perched in a snow bank just out of reach from Moose, my fifteen year old, handsome-as-ever dog. In his younger years (age 1 month-12 years) he would have lept the two feet to the top of the snowbank and been crunching bone before I could even tighten the leash. But this morning he just strained at the end of his leash, his snout longingly taking in the scent of greasey chicken flesh mixed with the crisp winter air.
I imagined he was remembering all the great food he's snatched off the sidewalks over the years. And there's been a lot: chicken bones, pizza crusts, half sandwiches, mysterious food wrapped in tin foil. For most of his life, I would fight with him to release the culinary treats he'd found. More than once I've grabbed the end of a pork chop bone that was clamped between his jaws as if it was a greasy door handle. During those struggles, he must have been convinced that we were in direct competition for survival. After all, he was out scavenging for food and I was pulling it out of his mouth. And then, to his horror, I would throw the food back into the street. It's amazing he listens to anything I say after seeing that sort of behavior.
Chicken bones are the bane of urban dog owner's lives (except when pigeons are eating the meat off the bone which most people agree is grotesquely entertaining). They seem to be everywhere and it's often said they can be lethal since chicken bones can splinter and get caught in the dog's wind pipe. That said, Moose is 15 years old and he's eaten about 147 chicken bones over the years and he's never so much as had to clear his throat after eating one. So these days if I suddenly hear a satisfied crunching from Moose, I get less stressed about it. Instead I think, 'Well done, old man. You've still got it.'
Anyway, we've got quite the cycle of life in the household between Moose's whopping fifteen years on the planet (that's 105 to you and me) and Enrico's measly four months. With New Year's Eve upon us it's like we've got our very own Father Time and Baby New Year in the house.
I've learned a lot from Moose over the years - he's smart and strong, enthusiastic and resilient - all traits I'll encourage as a parent. But I'll still wrestle a dirty chicken bone from The Boy's mouth if he finds one on the sidewalk or playground. I don't care what Moose says - that's nasty.
Bill - that photo is priceless. Baby-with-pet photos are high on my list of favorite things :)
This post reminds me of a Kinkel cat of yore -William of Orange (an orange tabby. natch.) Once, my brother and I caught him fishing Chinese spare ribs out of the kitchen garbage. The growling that emerged from him, while we chased him to take away the bone, was frightening. Finally, he nestled in under the couch, far from our grasps. My bro and I could only watch with horror and a strange sense of admiration as Willie bit the damn thing in half as if it were a twizzler, and wolfed it right down. Our rough-housing of said cat greatly diminished after this event.
Posted by: Kinks | 02/18/2011 at 03:48 PM