“Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in.” Mark Twain, American humorist
Miles, our Appalachian porch dog, is well fed to say the least. And, well watered. That means little when it comes to the street, however. There, as he does when running off leash in the woods, his mildly feral ancestry seems to come right to the top.
Never mind that he has a perfectly clean bowl at home, there is not a puddle he does not desire to drink from. Never mind his own food supply (supplemented with table scraps), there is not an ant-covered donut, tire-tracked pizza crust or desiccated chicken thigh that he will not eat.
And, he’s sneaky. He, led by his nose no doubt, knows that food is ahead when we suspect nothing. He behaves nonchalantly, walking along as if he had never even thought of a donut in his life, until he is within mouth reach. Then, he lunges, jerking us toward the food and gulping whatever it is he has found in a single movement.
Once, when we were walking near the back of a pizza place, he came upon an entire half of a pepperoni pizza that some unfortunate soul who lost control of his box must have dropped. That find, too big to gulp, didn’t make it down his gullet, but nearly everything else we’ve stumbled upon has.
Except for the chips.
They inspire only the same kind of interest he displays at fine looking trees and fire hydrants. Sniff, sniff, sniff and onward he walks, the “food” left behind. He’s especially disinterested in cheese curls, veggie fries and, we discovered just this week, fiery pork rinds.
What can I say? The dog, such as he is, clearly has some standards.