“What is it boy? Is it Timmy? Is he trapped in the well?”
No. It was suppertime, doofus.
So I put dog food into his bowl. He was happy to see the food, and he sniffed at it and then looked at me. I pointed at the food and said, “Eat.” He sniffed at the food, and then looked at me and wagged the little stump of his tail.
I shrugged, and walked away.
The dog drooped, and also walked away, food untouched.
“Why’d you demand food, if you aren’t going to eat it?”
He didn’t answer.
A short time later, I got hungry, so I found some left overs and started preparing my own meal. The Neurotic Dog perked, then dashed over to his bowl. His face hovered over the bowl, as he glanced sidewise up at me, waiting. Waiting. I finished putting my own meal together, picked up my plate, and glanced over. His nose was touching the kibble in his bowl, but he still stared over at me.
I walked into the dining room. His eyes followed me, and his little tail wiggled slightly.
I sat down.
He laid down.
I dug my fork into my food, and could hear the rattle of kibble against the ceramic of his dish as he started to eat.
Dog just didn’t want to eat alone, is all.
[ed: Originally published June 17, 2004. Thanks, PJ, for helping me remember. Beau was a cool dog, in his needy, neurotic way.]