Leo…

Les and I were sipping a nice chilled glass of boxed wine out on the aft deck.  We’re certainly not wine snobs in any shape or form, and have found that box wine meshes well with boating life.  No glass.  And the box breaks down into an easily recyclable item.  And… the Bota Box, Nighthawk bourbon barrel cab is delightful and seems to cross borders nicely.  Leo of course was at hand. Begging.  His usual modus operandi.  It was all about the bowls.  Bowls that could be licked clean.  Dog clean.

We’d just finished nice salads with broccoli, romaine spears, Cosmic Crisp apple wedges, red pepper slices, sharp Tillamook cheese, and bits of leftover pork tenderloin from the night before.  Finger food in a bowl.  Eaten by hand.  We had little demitasse cups of my extra special 21000 Island Cruising Dressing as a dipping sauce. All favorites of ours… and his.

His perception: Human food is dog food. The very best dog food. Chopped broccoli: Dog food. Especially the chewy stems. Cauliflower: Dog food. Romaine lettuce: Dog food, but… what’s the point? Well… they eat it, so I’ll eat it. Just throw it in MY bowl so I won’t have to eat it off the rug. Bit of tenderloin: DOG FOOD!!! Any kind of cheese: EXTRA SPECIAL DELUXE DOG FOOD!! Peanuts: DSOG FOOD!!!!! I’m not picky!

Our bowls and demitasse cups were quite empty by the time we were done with them. They were just resting for a spell on the table between Les and I, patiently waiting to be carried to the sink to be rinsed, washed and dried.  The usual.  Oh… being licked perfectly dog clean was just fine with them.

Leo didn’t believe me when I told him there was nothing left in the bowls.  His “stare” was in full force, and it is a power to be reckoned with.  He’s a jinormous 14 pound long haired Chihuahua with merle colorations.

Chihuahuas are for the most part, a short haired breed.  Well… sapiens couldn’t leave that well enough alone, now could they?  The genetic manipulations follow:  Chihuahuas got their long hair via genetic transfers from the Pappillon.  Merle coloration for the most part has been pinned on Queensland Heelers (Australian cattle dogs…) known for biting the heels of cows during the chase. It might have been Australian Shepherds, but I’m going with the Heeler breed.  Ever had one stare at you.  It’s not the stare of a Border Collie.  That can be intense and full of keen wit. A Heeler’s stare has layers of resolute toughness, assured competency, balanced fearlessness, laced with a bit of menace.  Imagine a 40 pound dog successfully herding cattle for a Living.  Yes, they are that tough:

So, to break the stare, I grabbed one of the empty bowls and put it down for him to inspect.  Had to be a bit of dressing there, right?  He’d been smelling it.  It had been there.  Nada!  His next look was… Really?  And so on.  There was another bowl up there on the table… and it was time to stare at Les:

Oh I know.  It’s our own fault.  We should have nipped it in the bud when the first subliminal signs of begging first appeared.  Then, we might have had a chance to modify that behavior.  Maybe.  Perhaps not.  When the early Athabascans (at least on this continent) first started tossing scraps of their fresh kill, and already gnawed on bones to the wolf pups scrabbling on the edge of the campfire light… the success and usefulness of begging was cast.

Cheesedog in “I’m pretending to be a squirrel” mode:

He’s a delightful Master At Arms, eh?