The table was modest but sacred. A chipped plate for me, an unbreakable bowl for Jonty (because we’ve learned from experience). Tonight’s menu: leftovers from yesterday’s roast for me, and a meticulously prepared chicken-and-rice special for him. Yes, you heard that right—Jonty eats better than I do. Don’t judge me; he’s a hardworking dog.
As we settled into our respective seats, I cleared my throat, ready to say grace. Jonty, ever the impatient one, was already staring at his bowl, drool forming a precarious drip at the edge of his jowls.
“Patience, Jonty,” I said, wagging a finger at him. He responded with a single, disdainful huff, the kind that said, This isn’t a negotiation, mate.
With a sigh, I picked up my fork and nodded. “Alright, alright, let’s dig in.”
Jonty needed no further encouragement. He dove into his meal with the enthusiasm of a food critic on a five-star binge. I swear he even smacked his lips—loudly. Meanwhile, I poked at my roast, which had the texture of a hockey puck. I shot a glance at Jonty.
“You could share, you know,” I muttered. He looked up briefly, gave me a quick you’ve got to be kidding me glance, and resumed eating.
Midway through supper, Jonty paused, his ears perking up at some imaginary noise. His tail gave a hopeful wag. I chuckled. “No, there’s no second course tonight. You cleaned out the fridge yesterday, remember?”