Dog doesn’t want to go Vegan.
He managed to get this point across quite succinctly by trying out the Vegan dog food I’d had shipped-in and mixed with his regular food and then vomiting it up all over the floor. He didn’t eat for two days afterward and kept giving me these looks that were, frankly, a little hostile.
So I’ve switched him to an organic dog food and begun to mix into it brown rice and steamed veggies. He’s okay with this, apparently, because his gazes have turned from accusatory to contented as he naps off his full, warm belly. Turkey.
Though less tragic a figure and hopefully not doomed, I used to mentally liken Dog to Lennie, from Steinbeck’s book. But he’s no dummy, Dog. He manages my household like a pro:
If his cat wants to go outside, he lays by the French doors, and it’s “bark” then “bark-bark.”
If Cat’s water bowl, which he personally prefers to drink from despite the fact that it’s a third of the size of his own water bowl, is empty, he’ll sit by it and “bark-bark-bark.”
If the phone rings, he’s up and stretching, ready for a walk while I chat with my human friend.
When there’s not enough room for his big self, he pushes throw pillows to the floor to make a comfortable nest on his couch.
When returning from a rainy day walk, he waits patiently for me by the door for me to grab a towel from the laundry room so that he can get rubbed dry.
He knows what he’s doing, Dog does.
And I’m just the dumb and happy human who facilitates the lifestyle to which he’s become accustomed.