#57 - An Unforgivable Sin
Zorba the Greek said there is one sin God will not forgive. As much as I admired the man, he was wrong. The other sin that God will not forgive is running out of dog food.
Even though the coupons were clipped to my dashboard as a reminder to get a 25 lb. bag of wholesome kibbles on my way home from work, I forgot. Last night we ran out of dog food. It was awful.
Suppertime had come and gone. We had some wonderful, crispy fried chicken and rice and peas, and strawberry shortcake for dessert. The house was awash with good smells. As I tilted my chair back from the table with a politely muffled belch, a familiar blond muzzle with a big brown nose on the end of it began shoveling its way under my arm. That particular muzzle is not easy to ignore; it's powerful and persistent, and when it’s hungry, it doesn't quit until it's fed.
I knew, of course, what old Hussy wanted, but I knew also I was guilty of a terrible omission in my duties in the course of the day. "Uh Oh," I said. "I forgot the dog food." My wife and son stared at me, and as the enormity of my crime sank in, we all said a collective “Uh Oh!”
That dog doesn't miss much. I think she was beginning to have an inkling of what was going on, and she tossed my arm harder than ever, knowing full well the disturbing effect it would have on my conscience. Even on a night with adequate rations on hand, this preliminary to her usual feeding frenzy can wreak havoc with my self-righteousness. Last night she destroyed it.
In an effort to get out of my mess, I rifled the cupboards, checked the fridge and foolishly looked down at the bottom of the dog food bin. The cupboards were bare, save for some noodles and beans. The fridge had things like ketchup and dill pickles and orange juice in it - nothing very doggy. (We never have leftovers, not with Lije and me around.) The prospects for a dog feast were getting pretty gloomy. The dog food bin had only a few bits rattling around in the bottom. Hussy had a mighty worried look on her face by now, and she adopted the strategy that frantic, starving dogs do, of watching all three of us at once, with all three eyes (looked that way), to be sure we weren't in collusion, pulling a big hoax over on her. It was no hoax.
Just the same, adrenaline can work miracles in the mind of a criminal, and I had every intention of making it through this crisis. A plan began to take shape. We had 10 or 11 kibbles for starters, and on the stove was a nice, messy chicken pan. Together, they might make a tasty, if meager, mouthful. A heartworm pill, mooshed up, added more bulk. What then?
With no other desperation foods on hand, it occurred to me that if I mixed a quart or so of warm water with the chicken and bits and a heartworm pill base, the old girl could possibly view my offering as a good-smelling soup stock. All she ever does is inhale her food anyhow, and this, I thought, should at least fill her up. And if I put it in two bowls, her dog brain would think it's getting twice as much. For once I saw her gluttony as a positive.
At last I lowered this deceitful, dog feast to the floor. Hussy went for it! What a relief! Her round, sausage shape worked over each bowl in turn, lapping and licking, and I could see contentment in her eyes as she filled up with the soup.
When she finally was done, she backed off, sat down and let out a loud burp. I was feeling rather pleased with myself, quite pleased actually. Salvation from a dog’s scorn, not to mention an evening ridden with guilt, was a huge relief . . . but somehow, I felt God was not smiling.