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Blogs and Stories

September 23, 2019
Corey Comstock

Emily

Emily, that’s her name.

Maybe it sounds like the latest Storm Event but that shouldn’t surprise anyone because she howls like the devil-wind if she catches the proper scent. Yes, she’s our dog except, as anyone with their own furry friend will tell you, she is not your typical dog. None of them are, right? Oh, she’s a miniature Beagle that barks, plays, and wags her tail like other hounds do but she does something the other woofers don’t.

She cooks dinner.

No way, you say.

She prepares and chefs up the dinner. Really, it’s true, at least in her own mind. First, she scratches on the door. Does she want to go out? No, she’s already outside. Does she want to come in? No, she doesn’t want that either!

“Hey, it’s dinner time and you can’t fire up the grill from inside there, now, can you, Daddy-O? Get your two legs out here right now because this barbeque isn’t going to roast itself!”

Sometimes I grill but not today, I’m in the kitchen. She trots in and plops down with a mindful stare, willing me to begin the food preparation activities. Good, it’s time for her to help and she rises to her feet and marches around the kitchen, supervising with magnificent brain waves. Her perimeter expands and now includes the dining room as she plods along, bidding dinner to evolve. My wife, Cindy, lifts her feet so the little squat Beagle can ramble past. Whenever Emily’s loop returns her back alongside the kitchen she pauses and visually sums up the progress.

“What? Not done?”

She struts on, her patrol now encompassing the living room. Within a few laps, her path of trajectory zigzags through the entire house: family room, bedroom, dining room, living room, under this chair, around that sofa, behind the Elliptical machine, and always back to the kitchen to continue her mindful authority. As the aromas reach their point of well-cooked perfection, she halts her march to supervise the distribution of food.

“That plate goes there, Daddy-O, you know. That’s right. Place that other one over there, now, very good. And don’t forget my dish.”

We feed her a balanced diet which does not include table scraps but now she enters puppy stealth mode. I glance up from my dinner plate and spot her ten feet away, sitting yoga-style, dead-silent brown eyes drilling into our tabletop cuisine. A moment later, she’s three feet closer, same exact pose, same demonic expression. Did anyone see her get up? How does she do that? One can almost hear a high-pitched violin belting out a frightening horror movie soundtrack.

Another moment, another three feet closer, same pose, same glare.

Screech, screech, screech.

Does she get a hand-out?

Well, she did prepare dinner, now, didn’t she?