Cooking For Daisy

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Why is it that some puppies are such picky eaters?

Submitted: August 23, 2019

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Submitted: August 23, 2019

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Cooking For Daisy

 

To say that Daisy is a ‘picky eater’ would be a real understatement. Dogs are supposed to have voracious appetites, or so I had been led to believe. Not Daisy! It takes a lot of coaxing and cajoling just to get her to take a mouthful.

 

I mean, think of the term, ‘puppy fat’. That’s what they say to describe a chubby child; it originated because puppies quite simply are always somewhat on the tubby side. They have to be, for they have an awful lot of quick growing to do. Not Daisy! She always looks as though she has been deprived of food. People have a hard time understanding that she just does not want to eat.

 

Take my aunt. She is my Mom’s sister and never hesitates to speak her mind. She had looked at Daisy and frowned.

 

You are feeding her, aren’t you?”

 

My mother sighed. “Of course. We’ve tried every single dog food on the market but she takes one look at it and walks away. To be honest, I don’t know what to do!”

 

And those words of hers were the absolute truth. We had cans labelled dog food, foil sachets in both meat and gravy. We had bags of the complete stuff, ranging in price from the cheapest to the most expensive. Daisy treated them all in exactly the same way; that is, she would walk over to her bowl, tail wagging, take one sniff and walk away again.

 

Are you sure that she is a dog?” my aunt asked. A stupid question if ever there was one. It was obvious that Daisy was very much a canine. My aunt was not going to be deterred though. “Perhaps she was brought up with cats. She might be having a bit of an identity crisis. Have you tried her on cat food?”

 

It was true that, so far, Daisy had not barked. But then again, she had not uttered a single meow either, and she had certainly never purred. Was cat food worth a try? My Mom clearly thought so.

 

By the end of the week, the stacks of uneaten dog food were joined with yet more cans, sachets and boxes, each now picturing a cat happily digging in to the delicious delicacies contained inside them.

 

Not Daisy. She still took one look then walked away, taking no more than a token mouthful now and then. In spite of all our efforts she was beginning to look pitifully thin.

 

Do you think she’s anorexic?” I asked, but my mother glared at me, not impressed by my unhelpful idea. Dog psychologists were few and far between, plus they’d want far more in fees than we could pay. Unless they’d take pet food in payment instead of cash!

 

Try cooking for her,” my brother said, on one of his brief appearances. He was always coming and going, rarely stopped for anything more than a quick snack.

 

My mother seemed to latch on to that idea. “Do you really think that would work?”

 

Sure, why not,” he’d said. “You’re a great cook.”

 

And so it began. She did not follow any recipe, but brought out the big stew-pot that rarely saw the light of day. She put in some oil, then tipped out the meat from a couple of sachets. It smelled just like dog food.

 

She added some seasoning, a bit of garlic salt, a pinch of ginger. I was dubious that this would make it any more appetizing for Daisy, but at least it smelled a bit pleasanter. The aroma had put me off my pasta, so when Mom wasn’t looking, I added it to the pot too.

 

It bubbled away, filling the house with its pungent scent. Dad had been watching the match on the TV, and he always liked to sip at a can. Bringing it in to the kitchen to recycle, he realized it was not quite empty; shrugging he tipped the remainder of the contents in to the pot. He saw me watching, winked and held a finger to his lips. He need not have worried for there was no way I was going to confide in Mom.

 

Daisy. She made up some stock, poured that in, along with a can of beans. After letting it all mix and simmer and merge into a stew she served out a portion.

 

Daisy came trotting in, looked in her bowl, sniffed at her bowl, then took a tentative lick. Something about it must have got her taste-buds going for she lapped it up. For the first time in two months, her bowl was completely cleaned out.

 

Congratulatory high-fives were shared all round, Daisy even joining in. My mother let out a sigh of relief. “Where’s Jed? I must thank him. It was his idea after all.”

 

He won’t be back until later. What are you going to do with it all? There’s enough for over a week here.”

 

She pulled out the roll of freezer bags, spooning the cooled mixture into them which I placed in the freezer. “No more room,” I eventually told her. There wasn’t much left in the stew-pot so she scraped it in to a smaller pan to keep for the following day.

 

I'm not often home before Jed, but it was Gita's 16th birthday party and it had gone on longer than expected. I let myself in and found my brother scraping out his bowl. Daisy was sitting at his feet looking up at him but he still didn’t figure it out.

 

The smell gave it away. That, and the saucepan that was sitting empty, waiting to be washed up. How was I going to tell him? There was no easy way of saying it.

 

Jed, you do realize what you’ve done, don’t you? You’ve just eaten the dog’s dinner!” I don’t think I’d ever seen my brother turn green quite so quickly.

 

 

 


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