Rituals and Entitlements

Morning sun. Cool, but bright. No rain forecasted. Time to reach into this new day, already launched with promise before Button insisted on her right as the house matriarch, to rouse us to duty. Irving tended them both outside as they relieved themselves, sniffed about, relishing the still-weak warmth of the sun.

Riley was most appreciative of his breakfast, his dry kibble enlivened with a rasping of cheese. Button disdained her own, similar breakfast offering, holding out lest she be deprived of the opportunity to cadge from our breakfast; tempting tidbits like crumbled bacon, fine-diced sausage, sprinkled over her food, the ultimate temptation.

She does this every time we're away from home. Even staying over at a cottage she's become familiar with. She plays the prima donna, coyly pretending disinterest in her dog food. Because she's elderly and because she hasn't much spare weight on her small frame, we urge her to eat her food, in preparation for the day's energy output; longer hikes than she's normally accustomed to.

Not this morning, I resolved. If her highness with her lofty attitude of entitlement wanted her breakfast, she would eat it as it was presented. Or not. She chose not. And as we closed in on our cantaloupe, banana, scrambled eggs, tea/coffee and toast, I almost relented, thinking perhaps I'd offer her scrambled egg.

But no, I quickly re-considered. She's spoiled enough; her own food has nutritional value designed for her canine needs, and I turned resolutely away after plunking her food bowl back in front of her, as originally presented. I did not actually hear her sigh of resignation, but watched, mesmerized, as she approached.

Head down, sniffing her bowl with seeming derision, she moved off again to stand a few feet off from her bowl. Considering her options, which must have seemed to her at that point, fairly slight. She seemed deep in thought. We do have a tendency to attribute a high degree of intelligence to our female Poodle, as opposed to the lack of, on the part of our male Poodle.

Riley, who is never consumed with doubt when confronted with the delightful appearance of a full food bowl and responds with eager alacrity, making quick work of an obviously-inadequate - in terms of quantity, never quality - meal, is a realist. It's edible, on offer, and represents a treat, whatever its make-up.

He too appeared fascinated by the odd little drama playing out before us. Button, so obviously conflicted, returned to the bowl twice more, then moved off again. For her, a matter of dignity and honour involved in this transaction. Her food offering representing the ultimate in inadequacy of content, rating a failing grade.

By contrast the two four-month-old dwarf goats in their pen outside whom we sought to introduce to new taste sensations other than the grass they nibble so daintily - setting aside also the special food their owners give them - refused nutritional quality for nutrition-less taste.

Offered a small packet of fresh baby carrots to enhance their gustatory experience, they refused the new taste sensation. On approach with the offering, their ears pricked up with interest, their button eyes bright with expectation, their rag-tag little tails wiggling in enthusiastic swoops as the carrots were offered with confidence.

They pranced forward, placing two front hooves through the wire loops of their fencing as we held moist orange carrots in hand, encouraging them to sniff, grab and consume. The execution of the first of the three preliminaries to devouring the offerings did not, however lead to the next two. They expressed indifference and walked away.

Obviously, we had disappointed these baby innocents, offering them items purporting to be edible. We then attempted the same routine with lettuce; curly, fresh lettuce. Believing they would accept it as a great treat. Same outcome. But bread? Soft and white, utterly without nutritional value? They fell with gratitude on the bread, devouring it, looking for more.

Back to Button. Though older and wiser in her fifteen years of blase life, not to be compared with the baby goats entering their own inevitable life experiences, edible and otherwise; she, like them, offered evidence of succumbing to the allure of taste over substance. Somewhat like human beings, in fact, given the proliferation of fast-food joints and sky-high obesity rates.

Button seemed finally to convince herself that her only option left was to consume what was before her. She initiated an old familiar ritual, one that would lead her to the consumption of food she deigned unworthy of her. The ritual reminiscent of an independent, feral lifestyle she had herself never known. A result of genetic imprinting. The recall of a collective memory of her species.

She began her pantomime of digging, re-arranging the air about her, in front of her food. A mirage of a never-experienced, yet instinctual-recalled ritual of fulfilling need over want. She pushed the air around, as though it represented yielding earth, inclining her head, emphatically moving it back and forth, arranging and re-arranging her stage.

Preparatory to dipping her muzzle into the food bowl, lapping up her food. At luxuriant leisure. Moving off from her food, repeating the ritual, dipping back into the bowl. Until finally nothing was left, to Riley's great consternation. For when, on occasion, Button does leave some food over in her bowl, he hastens to take possession of the left-overs.

Life, sometimes, can be so unfair. Oh, and are we happy that we won over the goats' little hearts by offering nutrition-devoid bread? Ugh.