“Not fair,” says Holly.
I’m concentrating on loading the dishwasher the right-and only-way and look over at her. Holly’s watching out the storm door into the backyard.
“Probably not,” I say. “But I’ll bite. What’s not fair?”
“Jager gets to eat an Easter bunny,” she said. “And he said only he can because he’s a hunter and I’m just the retriever. I don’t get it. Does being a retriever mean I can at least carry the Easter bunny in my mouth for awhile? I’d be down with that”
“Easter bunny?” I say. “As in a chocolate bunny? Nobody is getting anything chocolate in this house*. Jager of all dogs knows that after the Great Stomach Pump Adventure.”
“See? Not fair! How would I know if they taste like chocolate if you won’t even let me roll one around in my mouth?” cries Holly. “Anyway, since they’re more grey than brown, they probably taste like … wait. What tastes like grey?”
“Leftover meatloaf,” I say. “Hold that thought. What are you saying is grey?”
“Bunnies!” says Holly. “Seriously, Food Lady, are you even listening to me?”
I close the door to the dishwasher and look out the kitchen window to see the Jagerhund snuffling through a patch of grass with one paw lifted as he Sybil channels the pointer personality of his multi-breed heritage. Oh for …
“JAGER!” I bang on the window with the flat of my hand, but the hunter of rabbit nests ignores me with a practiced ear.
“Stay here, Holly,” I say. “I have to go get the spotted wonder and drag his baby bunny lovin’ behind back inside.”
“Get me a brown one, Jager!” Holly yells out the door. “They taste like chocolate!”
“Dogs can’t have chocolate,” I remind her. “Jager! Don’t you even!”
“Then a grey one!” calls Holly. “She says they taste like meatloaf!”
I speed walk out back where I reach Jager to grab his collar, which he neatly slips out of because his noggin is shaped like a pointy headed mouse. He looks up at me, grass clippings stuck to his nose.
“What? What was I doing wrong?” says Jager. “Nothing. That’s what. I’m a terrier; a hunter of small furry things. It’s what I was born to do and you’re messing with my destiny.
“That’s just not fair,” he huffs.
“Whatever,” I say. “Ok, let’s pretend you’re not a pointer or a terrier. Which breed personality is your next favorite?
“Easy. The sheltie one,” says Jager. “I could herd these things, but they’re all squiggly-like and won’t run. There’s no glory in chasing something that just wiggles in one spot.”
“Hey,” I say. “I have a great idea.”
“Why start now?” says Jager.
“Hush it, sarcasm-hound,” I say. “I think I have a way to make you, Holly, and the cottontail family all ridiculously happy. Look, are you up for a challenge worthy of your rich varietal heritage? Yeah? Ok, I can offer you a fuzzy-tailed, long-eared, wiggle-butt critter you can chase until one of you calls Uncle.You can let your terrier/pointer/sheepdog/spaniel freak flag fly. What d’ya think?”
“Game on,” says Jager.
*Not entirely true, that. Being aware of the dangers of chocolate consumption by dogs, I have safely stashed away my Reese Egg collection. It’s in the pots & pans drawer, of course, safe and sound from my family as well. Because, lord knows, nobody in this house touches the handle of a skillet but me.
On another topic, I was thinking of titling this Chocolate Meatloaf or maybe Meatloaf Bunny, but I didn’t want to be confused with a cooking blog.