Dog Cheese

This is dog cheese.

It’s 2% of course.

Every morning before I leave for work I give Riley and Daisy each a piece of cheese.  They really love their morning cheese.  I mean REALLY love it.

Riley has assumed the position.

Oh yeah.  It’s the good stuff.

Come to papa.

This is what I live for.

Good stuff!!

(Notice that there are no pictures of Daisy. Not even the promise of morning cheese is enough to get past the camera.)

Usually Riley’s cheese is hiding either some kind of ear infection med or a probiotic chewable tablet.  (I’m secretly hoping that the probiotics will help boost his immune response to the disgusting yeast that loves to inhabit his ears.  I’m not holding my breath.)

Oh the joys of owning a Bassett Hound.

Daisy doesn’t get meds, but we do a quick run-through of her repertoire of tricks:

  • sit
  • lay down
  • shake
  • high-five

 Is it any wonder that I can never seem to make it to work by 8:00?

Anyway, yesterday morning we were out of dog cheese so I stopped by the store after work.  While in the dairy aisle, I started laughing to myself a little remembering when our foreign exchange student, Karo, was here last year.  One day she was making a sandwich and when she went to grab a slice of cheese I told her, “Don’t use that…it’s the dogs’ cheese”  We all had good laugh about it and went on about our sandwich making business.

I then had a flashback to the first time Tripp came home to meet my parents.  I made spaghetti and after dinner we all went to sit in my parent’s living room.  Tripp being the guest (and trying to make a good first impression) didn’t go directly to my dad’s easy-chair.  Instead he went to the chair in the other corner where our dog, Weeny, happened to be snoozing.  Being a gentle as possible, Tripp lightly brushed Weeny off the chair.  My mother gasped in horror, “Don’t do that – it’s Weeny’s chair!”

Then it dawned on me…

…Dear God…

…it’s happening…

…I am just like my mother.


So with that little insight, I am off to go see if Daisy will come out of hiding and eat her cheese.

Peace, Sandy’s daughter


About Minding My Nest

wife, mom, not-so-empty nester.
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