“Just tell me where to go, please.”
My four-ton dog loves to hang out at the side of our beach house when a neighbor does a barbecue.
Scraps may come her way, and so she parks herself at the fence, looking as meek and longingly famished as possible. “How sweet” is the phrase she tries to extract from the neighbors, because that most likely means a bone or a piece of meat will come flying her way.
The trouble with this cherished routine comes when the neighbors on both sides of the house fire up their barbecues. She has to flit from one side of the house to the other, looking increasingly perturbed that she could miss out on a morsel.
That’s what is happening now.
Back and forth she goes, until finally she collapses on the patio, exhausted.
I whistle to her.
Her ears perk up and her eyes widen when I show her my dinner of a baked potato and salad.
She parks herself under the table. After running yourself to the ground to try to score a few scraps of beef, you can never be too picky as an oversized dog.
