Christmas dinner was a fine affair here at our house. We invited a few friends over and Mark whipped up a delicious dinner of prime rib, mashed potatoes, and spinach. It doesn't sound like a lot, but trust me, with all the extras like the crab bisque, bread, appetizers, and date/nut bars for desert, I was stuffed.
I am writing this on the day after Christmas, and I have had prime rib for lunch, prime rib for dinner, and prime rib and gummi bears for a light, after going out to the bars, snack (Vodka makes you crave strange food combinations). As I sit here writing this, a malodorous fog has filled the room, and I am gagging on the smell of dog farts. You see Chandler has been dining on a very similar diet since yesterday. I thought I was being very conscientious in letting little Chandler have bits and pieces of Mark's prime rib, but what I didn't allow for was Mark and all the guests dropping him a taste here and there.
The funny thing about dogs is that they don't know the meaning of the words 'too much'. They may know 'sit', 'stay', 'come', but 'too much' is not in their vocabulary. As long as meat is coming their way, they open up and swallow. At times the meat doesn't even have to be offered to the dog. They may take things into their own paws, like Chandler did tonight. Earlier Mark had cuts of prime rib sitting on the counter, and was preparing our dinner of leftovers, when he stepped out of the kitchen for a minute. In those few moments Mark was out of the room, Chandler performed a feat of magic worthy of David Blaine. He made my dinner disappear. So now I sit here and put up with the ultimate insult. Not only did Chandler take my dinner off the counter and wolf it down faster than the speed of light, he is laying on the floor next to me, blowing farts that are so noxious that my eyes are watering and the cats keep trying to bury him in kitty litter.