“Look at all those BUNS!”

Olive loves going to my cousin’s home for the holidays. Especially holidays that are celebrated outdoors, where the food is more accessible and the humans more distractible. As the humans clustered together on the deck in search of any slivers of shade on this oppressively hot and humid day, the three dogs – Olive, Hunter and Oliver – who usually race around the yard like Lamborghinis – mostly stood around like dog mannequins, panting non-stop. Even this did not stop my little cur from trying to score some human food. “DON’T WORRY, ALL SHE GOT WAS A HOT DOG BUN,” said MaryAnn. “Yeah, great,” I say to myself. I think that’s her fifth one. Thank God it’s just bread. This is the same dog I gave 1 (as in not two; as in single, solo and 3 minus 2 equals) potato chip to the other day and she had Montezuma’s Revenge for the rest of the day. Some people don’t believe me when I say that Olive has a digestive system that’s as delicate as a Fabergé egg. I did laugh though when someone else told me that Olive actually “nosed” the hot dog out of the bun before streaking away with said bun gently nestled inside her mouth perpendicular to her snout. (Wow. I don’t think I‘ve ever used the phrase “perpendicular to her snout” before.) Now, what does this mean? Is this proof that Olive knows that hot dogs are not exactly “health food?” Did she turn her nose up at it because it was not the natural and organic food she was raised on? Does she prefer them ungrilled? Maybe she just doesn’t like hot dogs? Or, maybe it was bad and she knew it. I can’t possibly police my foodie pooch while I eat, so I take my plate of food and my dog and go into the nice, arctic cold kitchen to eat and keep Olive from diving headfirst into all the bowls and plates of food outside. She’s not happy. She watches me eat and stands there and barks at me. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME? YOU HAD FIVE HOT DOG BUNS…OR MORE… AND IT’S NOT NEAR YOUR DINNER TIME YET. KEEP YOUR FUR ON.” Now that I’ve stolen some of the coolness in the house for as long as I can without being rude, I take Olive and we go back outside to join the other guests. Soon, dessert is served and the table loads up with homemade blueberry pie, peach pie, devil’s food cake with whipped cream and fresh strawberries and the strawberry graham cracker ice cream cake I brought from Coldstone Creamery. I can actually feel the energy expelled by the salivary glands dancing inside Olive’s mouth.  I turn my head for just a brief second to respond to someone’s question and immediately I hear the familiar shriek, “OLIVE. NO!” And then the sound of feet racing over to the table to extricate Olive’s extremely pink tongue from the side of the Coldstone’s ice cream cake. This dog is a smarty pants. At least she picked the right dessert to molest today.