Dinnerdread.

I had just gotten home and gotten Cutter and Tug ready for their evening walk which is preceded by, and dreaded by me, their evening meal.

Every night is a new and interesting tug-of-war to get our two turds to eat in something resembling a reasonable fashion.

Tonight was no exception. After I’d managed to quell the spilling excitement and running around and wrestling that reaching for their leashes had caused, I gave them both a dog biscuit and filled their bowls with food.

And thats when the fun always begins.

Numm, ummm, chomp, ummm, nummm, Tug says, burying his face in first one bowl and then the other.

Cutter stands, looking expectantly and hopefully up at me.

Boss, c’mon boss, can I get another biscuit?, just one more biscuit?, he says, glancing back and forth between me and the pantry. C’mon, c’mon boss, pretty please? he pleads, twitching like an addict.

Nummm, nummm, chomp, glump, Tug says, and swallows.

I hesitate briefly and then gave in. Cutter just looks so needy. All right, I say, moving towards the pantry and giving them both a biscuit. Tug pauses eating his dog dinner just long enough to trot over and take the proffered biscuit.

Hmmm, nemmm, he says, chewing thoughtfully, this actually attenuates my meal, he says.

I think you mean accents, I say, that it accents your meal.

Whatfuckingever, Tug mumbles, moving back to their food dishes.

I put my coat and gloves on and turn to see Cutter once again beckoning towards the pantry. C’mon boss, he pleads, I just LOVE those things. I can’t get enough of ’em, I’d get ’em myself if I had thumbs, he whines, looking like he’ll pee the floor.

Jesus Christ, I think, pulling my gloves off, and repeating the nightly cycle.

And then again.

And then a fourth time, and finally, I lose my temper. ENOUGH, I shout, angrily giving them each one more biscuit. Cutter and Tug stare at me, maybe feeling sorry for me, and then Tug goes and stares out the door, ready for his walk. Yesssss, I think, moving towards Tug and the door.

But Cutter goes to the bowls, sniffs experimentally and then stops and stares up at me.

I don’t have any chicken, he says.

I try to count to 10 and make it to 3.

OF COURSE YOU DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKING MOTHERFUCKING CHICKEN CUTTER. TUG ATE ALL OF THE CHICKEN OUT OF YOUR CHICKEN AND RICE DOGFOOD WHILE YOU WERE FUCKING AROUND WITH BISCUITS!, I yell, my blood pressure spurting off the scale. WHY CAN’T YOU GUYS BE LIKE REGULAR DOGS AND JUST FUCKING EAT!!!!!, I shout, gesticulating about like a crazy person.

Cutter and Tug stare at me. And then Cutter drops his eyes to his litter mate and they exchange a look. And the look says, jesus what a dickhead.

Tug shrugs and turns back to the door, staring out expectantly, patiently waiting.

Cutter returns to their dinner bowls. He sniffs. He tastes experimentally. And then he sits and looks back at me. He settles himself.

I don’t have any chicken, he says.

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