My partner and I always take our vacation in late October because the weather is cool, resorts are vacant, prices are cheap and since most children are either in school or rehab there are virtually no kids around.
In the past, our leaving town was never a big deal because we would send our big dog Ali over to my middle sister’s house . But this year my sister and Judson, her husband, are fostering Kaiser, a huge Weimaraner who took an instant dislike to Ali, so packing Ali off to my sister’s house was not an option.
The thought of boarding Ali in a kennel was enough to ruin the whole trip and we certainly would never subject her to a long flight in a Delta cargo hold so she could come hiking with us in the Colorado Rockies. We were seriously debating cancelling our vacation when my younger brother came to our rescue. He’s retired now, and kind of bored, so when he volunteered to come down from Ocala for a week to stay with Ali we did not hesitate.
As we prepared to leave we my partner, who is something of a micromanager, wrote down specific instructions for Ali’s care and feeding: three pages of single spaced directives.
My brother sighed. “Three pages?” he said. “Really?” He rolled his eyes. “We’ve had dogs our whole lives. I think I can handle Ali.”
I thought for a moment. “She’s a really picky eater,” I said carefully which is a major understatement: for a big dog Ali is incredibly finicky and her tastes change with the tides.
“If she refuses to eat her dog food,” I said, “just put some whipped cream on it. That always does the trick.”
My brother snorted. “Clearly Ali thinks she is the Alpha dog in your house,” he said condescendingly. “Whipped cream? That’s insane.” He shook his head. “In my house I am the Alpha.”
“Good luck with that,” I said and we were off to the airport.
By the time we landed in Denver I had a series of text messages. “Ali won’t eat her dinner,” said the first. “I refuse to give in,” said the second. “This is one stubborn dog,” said the third. “She can starve for all I care,” said the next.
I was getting worried. “Just give her some of whatever you’re eating,” I said. “Or some whipped cream. It always works.”
“You always give up too easily,” he wrote. “Dogs eat dog food. Period.” There was a pause. “She won’t starve herself,” he texted. “She has to learn who’s boss.”
“Please don’t starve my dog,” I texted right back. “Just give her some whipped cream.”
“I know what I’m doing,” he texted back. “She’s not gonna win.”
When I woke up the next morning there were multiple text messages waiting for me. “She still won’t eat,” said the first.
“It’s been almost 24 hours,” said the second.
“I’ve never seen a dog this stubborn,” said the next.
“SHE REFUSED TO EAT TURKEY BREAST!” came the next. “WTF?????”
“Is it Boar’s Head?” I texted anxiously. “She won’t eat the store brand.” I paused. “Just give her some whipped cream.”
“NO!” he wrote. “She’s not gonna win.”
I was concerned. “Ali’s not eating,” I told my partner. “Maybe we should fly home.”
My partner was complacent. “Give it until dinner time,” he said. “Your brother will cave by dinner time.”
That evening I got a text message with a video of Ali attacking her food with gusto and then licking the plate clean.
“Ali won?” I gloated. “You gave her whipped cream?”
“I DID NOT!” he responded at once. “I refuse to give a dog whipped cream,” he added.
I know my dog and I know my brother. “What DID you give her?” I asked.
“Melted Velveeta,” he said. “She loved it.”