Ladies and gentlemen, we have a guest writer contributing to this post. Meet Maggie, the dog. Half border collie, half Shepard with a personality that’s 100% larger than life, and almost human, though occasionally she suffers from thumb envy. Like today. It’s a minor setback, which is why I’m relaying her story, regarding a recent epiphany she had.
It was a kitchen prep day. The stovetop simmered, the oven roasted, while the blender and food processor hummed in sync to my slicing, dicing, mincing, and chopping. Consequently, the herbaceous aromatics wafting through the kitchen had Maggie’s attention. She eyed my every move with longing anticipation as I strained the stock, hoping a juicy morsel would escape the pot and fall to the floor. So I heaped what was in the colander into her bowl.
As I set down the bowl, she pinned back her ears as if I’d just pulled a bait and switch, because no one pulls the wool over her eyes. No sir! Those sumptuous smells couldn’t possibly be from… She glanced up with a face that said, Seriously… you want me to eat… After a few guarded sniffs, she nosedived into the bowl and devoured the contents as if it were steak tartar. Meanwhile, Voodoo, the cat relayed a less than enthusiastic response. Does this look like the body of a vegetarian? All Voodoo cared about was that her Friskie’s Sauce-Sensations weren’t compromised with… God forbid. Vegetables!
Unfortunately, within a few days, Maggie had exhausted the terrine of vegetables I’d saved. She stared forlornly at her bowl of Kibble’n Bits this morning, then glanced up to convey, what’s this? Now, I could have told her some sordid tale about how Voodoo ate them, but she knew better, and demanded, Where’re my vegetables?
Once you’ve tasted the “real McCoy,” there’s no going back to processed food!