The other night, I asked Jeff to feed our puppy Lucy. I should mention here that this is something I typically do. I could hear him in the kitchen struggling and I might have been laughing at him because he still has not mastered our super cool Pampered Chef can opener. In our house, he opens the pickle jars and I open the cans. I asked him if he needed my help. He said no. I asked him if he was sure about that. He said no again. Five minutes later, he asked me where the regular can opener was. That's when I decided to intervene.
I walked in the kitchen and was shocked at the sight on the counter. That can was mangled. Jeff stood there sheepishly while I surveyed the damage.
Then I flipped the can over, displaying for Jeff the top of the can, complete with pull tab.
Score one for me.
Today Lucy might have eaten some, um, feminine products that she somehow managed to root out from under the sink. She might have eaten them packaging and all. After a quick phone call to the vet, I spent the better half of the day observing her. And by "observing her" I mean watching to see if said feminine products came out her rear end. It was a really good way to spend my day off. I highly recommend it as opposed to say, reading a good book or cleaning your house.
Later that evening, after learning things I never wanted to know about dogs and their bathroom habits, I prepared her dinner.
Two hours later, Lucy was pawing frantically at my legs and whimpering loudly. I'd never seen her so upset. I turned to Jeff in a panic.
"She's hurt, isn't she? She ate a pack of Kotex and now she's dying!"
"Maybe she's just hungry, he said, did you feed her?"
Of course I fed her. I fed her two hours ago. I would never forget to feed the dog. I informed Jeff of these things and huffed my way into the kitchen, intent on giving her a treat.
That's when I saw her dish sitting on the counter, dinner untouched.
And just like that, the score was even again.
