Regular readers (which I'm hoping are still out there, given that I haven't posted anything in almost a month - damn that accounting course!!) may recall that a few months ago our beastly boy had emergency surgery. As part of his recovery efforts he had to take a few ugly horse pills and while this is the most food motivated dog I've ever known, getting him to take his medicine like a man was asking a bit much after he'd had his neck sliced and diced. So we began disguising his medication in the form of a venison meatball. Twice a day we'd give him a dog food meatball spiked with antibiotics and pain meds and then scoop a spoonful or two on top of his regular dry food to encourage him to keep eating and building his strength. To be fair, of course, we also gave the Gidge a spoonful of the venison treat as well.
Little did we know those few innocent meatballs and spoons full of ground up elk parts would lead us down the tracks to the Gravy Train.
After we were done medicating Snicks I couldn't bring myself to feed him dry dog food for every meal - even though that's what he's eaten for 11 years now. No, because he was a recovering patient, I continued to spike his dry food with something wet and tasty. The extra special venison dog food was like $4 a can - talk about a gourmet treat, so I went in search of a more economical substitute and I found it in the grocery store in the gravy & sauce aisle. For .69 a can I loaded up on cans of Heinz gravy and at breakfast and dinner I spiked both their dishes with a drizzle of gravy - you know, just to keep it interesting.
Well holy smokes. The reaction at meal time from these two animals can only be compared to a meth-addict jonesin' for a fix. Our typical routine is to let the dogs out before their meal and ever since we introduced the two to the joys of the Heinz family of gravies they have never peed faster in their lives. As soon as they're done they're back at the door ready to get on board the Gravy Train. Just as if they were trying to make the 5:15 run from New York to Connecticut, these two race through the house, sliding around the corners, wiping out around the kitchen island, skidding into their bowls, tails wagging, feet flying and tongues drooling at the prospects of the ambrosia in their bowls. Snicks attacks his food like a barbarian while the Gidge acts like the Queen of England, double cutting each slice of kibble to savour every last drop of gravy.
Afterward, bellies full, passed out on the living room floor the two of them snooze the rest of the day away, dreaming about the day they'll be upgraded from gravy to poutine.
