Sorry I’m a little late with this week’s posting, but Frankie and I were vacationing at Snack World (my mother’s house.) Like most vacations, this one entailed lots of relaxing, tasty treats and a general flouting of the rules.
We both enjoy Snack World immensely. Mainly for the obvious — the snacks. Like one of those old-fashioned sweet shops on Main Street, my mother keeps a colorful variety of dog treats in a see-through canister in her kitchen. Like a spoiled child, Frankie has become selective, turning up his nose at some, in hopes that the next goody pulled out of the jar will be even better.
He’s also become wise to the snack routine. In the beginning, he would paw at the side door to be let out to do his business. My mother so appreciated him letting her know when he needed to go, that he received a snack when he returned through the back door. After months of receiving treats this way, he started skipping the part where he actually went to the bathroom. It was discovered when he began pawing to get in just seconds after pawing to get out. Frankie was leaving out the side door and immediately circling around to the back door, just to get the treat.
I too, enjoy the food, though it’s challenging when I’m trying to watch my weight. Mom doesn’t keep anything fat-free or light in the house. Since I can’t cook, I often look forward to having scrambled eggs or a grilled cheese sandwich. But it’s a real grilled cheese. Not 2% cheese and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. It’s made with thick bread, tons of regular cheese and you better believe it — real butter.
A different household means different rules. Forget consistency. It doesn’t exist. But Frankie’s smart enough to keep it straight. At home, I’m the mom, the disciplinarian. But there, I’m a child too, and under my mom’s roof, Frankie lives by her rules. Which is to say, he gets away with murder. He’s allowed on the bed, to beg, and to chase the cat, just to name a few. It’s no wonder he jumps up and down in excitement whenever she comes to pick us up.
My routine disappears too. My computer isn’t there so I can’t write or send emails. Usually my power chair isn’t there either, so I can’t walk Frankie. Gone are the 4 a.m. wake-ups and we all watch a late-night movie on my mom’s big screen. If Frankie could talk, I’m sure he’d be bragging to his friends at daycare about what he does on his vacations. And it’s not even summer yet.