You should see Olive snatch popcorn out of the air like an All-Star center-fielder. If there was a Canine Baseball League, Olive would definitely play center field. She wouldn’t have to be a home run hitter. She could hit hard line drives or screaming grounders and race around the bases before the ball ever bounced into a Terrier’s glove. Unless of course, she catches the tail wind of some delectable scent. Then all bets are off. And if she gets bored between second and third base, well, she might stop to eat third base. Or at least chew it until it resembles a twisted piece of rawhide. (And speaking of rawhide, that means no ball would be safe.) “OH LOOK OLIVE, THE PITCHER IS A GERMAN SHORTHAIRED POINTER. HE’S JUST GOING TO POINT AT THE CATCHER. STEAL THIRD!!!” (This story is starting to sound more interesting than the one I had to intended to write.) Back to the popcorn. Hearing the popcorn pop in the microwave, Olive trailed me into the kitchen. She stares at the source of these unusual, erratic sounds, cocks her head, and once in a while, jumps back a little as if one of them is going to rocket towards her. She trails me downstairs into the living room, close on my heels as though she is my Secret Service Agent. I lie on the couch, she jumps up and assumes a regal “sit.” She stares at me so longingly, there is a scent of pathos in the air. I launch a kernal in her direction and watch her head jerk in about six different directions at once in the space of a nanosecond, her brain trying to calculate the potential trajectories of the kernal. SNATCH. It’s gone. CRUNCH. CRUNCH. Her head returns to its pre-launch position, scanning the horizon for the next kernal. RELEASE. SNATCH. OOPS. It bounces off either the tip of her nose or her opened mouth and lands right back into the bowl, next to the unspent artillery. Being Howie Mandel-like, I am somewhat aghast. “CRIPES. DOG COOTIES.” It wouldn’t be so bad if Olive didn’t spend half the day licking both of her netherbits. I scan the bowl, still mostly full. There is no way I could identify the errant grenade. “OLIVE, IF I GET SOME PARASITE FROM YOU, I’M NOT GOING TO BE HAPPY.” We continue playing this game and when it’s over, I think to myself: “But of course. My dog loves birds and food, why wouldn’t she like any food that flies through the air. And when you think about it, that’s what birds are to her, flying food, right?