We have had several dogs, but only two for any length of time. Spanky was our little Yorkie that we had for ten years. He was technically my dog, but everyone loved him. You couldn't help but love him. Ben acted like he couldn't stand a little dog, but they were good buddies, especially when Ben was frying eggs (he makes perfect fried eggs). Spanky knew as soon as the egg pan came out of the cabinet that he was in for a treat. Ben has always said the key to making perfect fried eggs is to get the pan hot enough, so while he was heating the pan (wink, wink) he would throw an egg in there for Spanky. Just to get the pan hot though. It's not like he actually, you know, liked the dog. And since Ben is also the chicken-peeler in the family (I hate taking the meat off the bones of a whole, roasted chicken, so Ben does that too), Spanky got more than his share of skin, cartilage, and fat. But only because it was good for him, not because Ben actually, you know, liked him.
So Spanky was accustomed to people food and would hang around the kitchen getting under everyone's feet when something smelled good.
Then we got Pete. 70-pound Pete is a little bigger than 12-pound Spanky was, and I knew I didn't want him in the kitchen along with everyone else, so I proclaimed (ha ha, I laugh at how ridiculous this was), "Pete will NOT get people food. AT ALL. EVER. NOT ONE TINY SCRAP. HE IS A DOG AND HE WILL EAT DOG FOOD."
Yeah, right. I think that lasted a month, maybe. So now Pete hangs around the kitchen when things smell good.
Fast forward to the grandbaby. Now I know you think I'm going to equate the dogs with the grandbaby, and in a way I am, but at the end of this interminable story, you'll see why.
Deb sends pictures from her cell phone to mine quite often and always captions them. The other day she sent this one:
And it said, "Do you want to know why he has his mouth open?"
So, of course, being the curious sort, I texted (Yes, that really is a verb. I looked it up.) back, "Why?"
Then she sent this picture:
For those of you poor souls who don't know what this is, it's (as the cup says) Jersey Mike's Subs. And you're probably thinking, "So what. It's a sub." But let me assure you that this is no ordinary sub. The original Mike's was in the town I grew up in, Point Pleasant Beach, New Jersey. It was a block from my high school. We used to walk there for lunch. There was nothing like it then, and there is nothing like a Mike's Sub now. If you ever have the chance to go to one (you can find them here), get a #2, Mike's way, and you'll love it so much your grandchildren won't even go to Subway. Obviously, since I was a youngster, Mike's has become a franchise and is now nationally called Jersey Mike's Subs.
So that's where they were. And the few times Sticky Bean has gotten big-people food, he's really liked it. Deb describes his reaction as "lunging at the spoon." He's learned that when Mama eats, it must be good, just like the dogs (See? I told you it would tie in!) And she added this caption to the photo: "This is why his mouth is open, only I'm not sharing!"
Granted, Sticky Bean is only 5 months old, but really! I texted back and said, "Oh, come on! Give him a little piece of bread with the sauce on it!"
So she did. And here's what he thought:
That's the look that says, "Better than Mama's milk!" There's another Mike's Subs lover in the family! I told you she was raising him right.
Be thankful ~