Sherman found himself in a steaming heap of trouble last week, and it was all over a chunk of grade A Alberta beef.
Picture a stunningly beautiful January afternoon, the little bit of snow that was left melting off the roofs and puddling in the yard around islands of dog turd. It was so warm that I wore flip flops to barbeque out on the back deck. I seasoned two beautiful, thick steaks and let them sit to room temperature to ensure they grilled up juicy and flavourful. In the last few minutes, I brushed my steak with some honey barbeque sauce and let the sugars carmelize.
Oh, that lunch was a delightful thing. I enjoyed my beef alongside a spinach salad while I watched reruns on the oldies television channel. Sherman lounged outside on the deck and soaked up the sunshine. Life in the dollhouse was good.
When I finished eating, I set my dishes in the sink, let the dog back inside and started cleaning up the last bits of painting mess in the bathroom. Usually, Sherman follows me around the house while I’m getting stuff done. That day, for a reason that escaped me until it was too late, he didn’t cling to me as if his sole mission in life was to cover my pant leg in hair.
I poked my head into the dollhouse kitchen and there was the speckled one, fully engaged in his task. All I could see was his tail wagging. The rest of him was intent on wolfing down the leftover steak he’d stolen off the counter. As soon as I uttered the first syllable of his name, Sherm scampered under the table with his tail tucked tightly beneath him and his legs quivering. He decided at the last moment to abandon the chunk of steak that remained of his purloined snack. I guess he figured that last bite wasn’t worth his foolish hide.
Actually, I don’t hit my dog, but I think he knew he was in for one heck of a time out. Either way, he was terrified. (Or perhaps still quaking with joy at his pilfered lunch.)
There it lay, all that was left of my delightful leftovers and the next day’s lunch, lying in a puddle of beef juices, barbeque sauce, and dog slobber. It was a pitiful sight.
Tonight I started browning the short ribs The Electrician bought over the other night (because nothing says, “I adore you” like the jumbo size package of beef ribs) and Sherman crept right next to the counter where I was trimming ribs while the first round seared in the frying pan.
Apparently, my regularly brilliant pooch is so intrigued by the succulence that is beef that he forgets both his manners and how much trouble he was in last week over a stolen steak. I told him to back his spotted backside up. He moved sideways.
I crouched over, shook a greasy finger at the dog and gave him my best, “don’t mess with me, kid” teacher stare. It’s a look that’s been carefully cultivated for more than a half decade.
Finally, Sherman started moving in the right direction. He eased himself slowly onto his towel, where he’s trained to chew his treats and gnaw his toys. See that big brown lump on the right side of the photo? Yeah, that’s a beef knuckle. It seems Sherm isn’t satisfied with his dog yummies. He wants what the rest of the family is eating. Spoiled brat.
Check out that nasty looking thing resting against the bottom of the fridge. It’s a cow shin. The dog has a beef buffet going on, yet he covets my short ribs.
I tried to take an awesome photo of Sherman after he snuck up beside me (it’s twice as difficult to tiptoe on four feet) with his tongue extended like an anteater’s. Just as I prepared to snap the greatest dog photo in recent memory, the camera made a sad noise and shut itself off. Apparently, even the best technology needs to be plugged in from time to time, or it will fail a blogger in her hour of need. Tragic, I know.
Now that the ribs are in the oven, Sherman has finally realized beef is off the menu tonight. He’s in his chair, chewing on his dinosaur.
Stegosaurus: it’s the other other white meat.
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