No, not Sidney Poitier. It’s Miss Rita. For the past week or so, Rita has sussed on to the fact that we feed Pablo his dry kibble at the dinner table. We do this because Pablo is the biggest beggar in doggydom, and if we fed him table scraps, he’d be tipping the scales even more than he does now. So I toss bits of kibble on the floor as K and I dine to the tune of Pablo’s increasingly frantic whines. Into this mix, enter Miss Rita, stage left. Rita prefers Pablo’s kibble to her own and is forever after me to give her some when I feed Pablo in the morning. I’ve been known to toss her a few, and she’s developed quite the taste for them. Come dinnertime, she positions herself in the corner and waits. When a stray kibble comes her way, she pounces. Pablo, chicken that he is, won’t challenge her because he’s afraid of her, and, to be fair, he has felt the sting of her claws in the past. Only OC stays away from the table. He’s too busy wailing at the door to our deck to be let out.
File this post under: The Joys of Dinnertime