Breakfast of Champions

We had breakfast with Yoko the puppy this morning. Unlike most weekdays, where breakfast for him consists of a bowl of dog food chunked out while we suck down a cup of coffee, this was “real” breakfast.

Bacon. Eggs. Toast.

And since the dog was here visiting, as he is most mornings, he got breakfast, too. More than his regular kibble. Something special.

Bacon. Eggs. Toast.

All of which he enjoyed, but which didn’t stop him from still begging scraps from our breakfast. I don’t think that DNA for eating disorders can jump species, but if it can, he is truly our love child.

It made me recall an earlier life I had, with an earlier dog.

Bull was my companion for over 20 years. Even though he’s been gone for almost 5 years now, I still miss him.

When I lived in Oklahoma, he frequently stayed with Grandma Johnson when I travelled. She liked it. He was well trained and low maintenance, content to sleep on the footstool next to her and share a bowl of popcorn in front of the television.

One time, I got back to Oklahoma City where she lived and spent the night at her house before returning home the next day. The next morning, I got up, stumbled to the kitchen for coffee and sat down to watch the breakfast preparation across the room.

Grandma, being a Grandma and having been a short order cook for years before I came along, was fixing breakfast.

Bacon. Eggs. Toast.

At first, I thought it was odd that she was fixing three plates but just assumed that my Uncle was coming by, as he did sometimes.

I didn’t think anything about it until she turned to me and said, “I’ve tried to figure it out all week, but I can’t tell. Do you think Bull likes strawberry jam or grape jelly better on his toast? I’ve just been fixing one of each so he can try them both.”

Still being on my first cup of coffee, it didn’t immediately sink in that she meant the dog, not my uncle.

I looked at her dumbly as she repeated the question, and I realized that I had two choices.

I could point out that he was just a dog and probably had no preference and that it was silly to even ask such a question.

Or I could offer an opinion.

Given the obvious pleasure she was getting from preparing a meal for someone besides herself, I chose the latter.

“I’m not sure Grandma. We just swap back and forth at home.”

“OK, then I’ll just keep making him one of each,” she said as she put the dish on the floor. “It’s been so nice to have someone in the house to cook for this week.”

It was then I realized that the dog, a little poodle mix, had gained weight not because she’d given him more than his allotted amount of kibble. Indeed, the bag was virtually untouched.

She’d fed him exactly what she’d eaten all week, thrilled to have both his company and his appreciation for her cooking.

When we got back to my house and I poured his regular dog food into his bowl the next day he looked up somewhat expectantly. Had Bull had the gift of speech he would have said, “There must be some mistake. My Grandma doesn’t treat me like this. She gives me anything I want and loves me more than life itself. I want to go back to live at Grandma’s house.”

At the time I thought it was kind of funny, a doting old lady treating the dog as if he were one of her grandchildren.

And yet, this morning I found myself cooling off Yoko’s eggs so he doesn’t burn his nose on them while I spread a bit of jelly on his breakfast toast as he looked on expectantly.

I think he prefers raspberry jam, but I’m not sure.