For the Discerning K-9

I've restrained myself from talking about, let's face it, putting down my parents. Until now. 

We all love our pets, to some they are truly our best friends. Here's what I mean.

My parents have a Brittany Spaniel named Oliver. He's eleven. My dad had never had a dog before.

Today around eleven I'm drinking a cup of coffee and reading a Bill Bryson book (I know, haven't I read them all by now? I haven't) at the kitchen counter when my dad comes in from the other room, Ollie excitedly nipping at his heels. Ollie doesn't follow, he rubs up against his master like a small child whining, "I'm still not close enough!" 

He goes to the fridge and takes out a half-full can of dog food and a single carrot. From the freezer he grabs a bag of peas. I look up from my book, Why does he have a carrot and peas? He grabs a small cutting board from the dish rack, a knife from the drawer. He rinses the carrot and begins slicing.

"Is that for Ollie?" I ask.

He smiles sheepishly, "Yeah." The look is unmistakable: he's sixty-five and still acts like an eight-year-old caught eating out of the half-gallon of ice cream. 

He grabs a plate-bowl from the cabinet, pours in the can, rinses it and adds the water before finishing with a handful each of peas and sliced carrot. Before I continue, this is not a metal dog bowl, of which we have several, but a Bennington Potters glazed number. Also, it’s Wellness brand beef stew, which I must admit makes Campbell's Chunky look like, well, dog food.

He stirs the slurry and slides it into the microwave. I've asked about this before, the response, "How would you like ice cold stew?" To which my mother responds, "He doesn't even taste it." 

A minute or so later he lifts the bowl from the microwave to cool as Ollie tries to climb the counter. I look at my mom. Splattered dog food microwave is all she can think about.

"Are the carrots al dente?" I ask.

"I don't know," and he dips his fingers in and brings one to his mouth.

I hear the crunch, "They're fine." 

"You're not kissing me with that mouth. You better brush your teeth. Gross," my mother chimes in unsolicited.

You'd think I'm done, but finally putting the cherry atop the overkill sundae, he pulls out a meat thermometer and checks its temperature.

I don't know what it was, but apparently, good enough.

Finally, Ollie gets his lunch. 

Twenty-five laps and eight seconds later he lifts a paw, snaps his fingers and says, "Take it away!"

I know you're disappointed, sorry that wasn't meaner.