I was eating dinner at a restaurant with friends the other night. That event is remarkable in itself, since dining out is not what I do regularly, even more true since the pandemic. But that is not the point. While everyone else was admiring their selections with genteel commentary, I was trying hard to not devour my crab cakes in about three and a half gulps. I was hungry, and they tasted spectacular.
My dear friend sitting to my left remarked that she has been a finicky eater all her life. The comment gave me pause. Who can be a picky eater? Unfettered by decorum and social norms, I would be voracious. It is hard to understand someone who is not. I remember once devouring a left-over cold baked potato right out of the refrigerator and feeling like I had died and gone to heaven. It is not as though I like all food – I am not a fan of olives, feta cheese, and those nasty, overly-seasoned chips and crackers found in the snack aisle of the grocery store. But the list of what I will not eat is paltry when compared to what I will. Gourmet food is mostly wasted on me, as the effort it takes to prepare does not deliver proportionally enhanced enjoyment. Unless, of course, someone else cooks it. Then the balance quicky tips in the other direction.
I do not think I eat more than anyone else; what I consume is limited by my anatomy. But the way I feel when I am hungry prevents me from being particular about what I put in my mouth. Hunger can be almost animalistic for me, expanding into my consciousness and suppressing every other thought. If hunger is a biological necessity, then I am gifted with a pleasurable and innate survival instinct.
Boomer the dog and I do not have a much in common. He is happy and carefree to the point of decadence. He sleeps soundly without a care in the world. He is insistent about being with his humans, and he shadows us around like the quintessential Velcro dog that he is. But when it comes to appetite, he and I are hunger clones.
Walking or running with Boomer is an exercise adventure, mostly because he needs to keep his nose to the ground much of the time. He would be horrified if he missed an imperative odor – or more importantly, a delicacy disguised as a leftover popsicle stick or an empty bag of Fritos. I go on high alert when he sniffs for more than a couple of seconds, his snout circling and snuffling with increasing urgency. That is the moment when I know he is about to gobble something inedible and possibly dangerous. I always give a little yelp in a futile attempt to distract him from his mission. But his sense of timing is perfect; he knows that when I do that, he must instantly gulp whatever it is that is enticing him.
Then I grab his muzzle and try to pull his jaws apart, much like an alligator wrestler trying to save a baby animal that has inadvertently wandered into the swampland zoo. Boomer locks his jaws and swallows as hard and as quickly as he can. When I am finally able to open his mouth and reach inside, he looks smugly innocent, the delicacy half-way to his stomach by that point. I am left to imagine how I will explain my dog-owner shortcomings to the veterinarian while she shows me x-rays of a leather glove lodged in Boomer’s small intestine. Meanwhile, her staff works up an estimate of what surgery will cost.
Our other dog, Bailey, is quite the opposite. She will never eat anything remotely dirty off the ground. Mealtime for Bailey is problematic; if the world is not aligned in quite the right way, she will take a pass. We cater to her with a special mix of kibble and wet food, but even so, it must be put in a place of her choosing – a location that changes depending on her whim. While she is nibbling on her meal, Don and I tiptoe around as though we are trying not to wake a fussy baby. Any movement or sound can divert Bailey from her task.
Giving a dog treat to a dog that is not food motivated is a challenge. Bailey will sniff it and look at us with suspicion as though we are evil predators trying to woo her away from her pack. She often just walks away with disdain, her body language displaying her contempt for our ineffectual intentions. We continually up the ante with her; right now, it is fresh sandwich turkey, but I suspect it will be grilled filet mignon at some point.
Come to think of it, my friend and Bailey are just alike – at least as far as their refined palates are concerned.