Saturday morning, I already walked the dogs, fed the cat, and turned the television on for Mark. Yes, that is one of my morning chores. You'd think that I could probably skip that one if I'd leave the remote closer to him in the morning. I've tried that. He still needs help. Anyway, Chandler is spread out on the living room sofa while Bette has snuggled up next to Mark in bed. I've decided that Bette has the aroma of a wig from the Salvation Army Store combined with the smell of an old turd and she needs a shower. It's the one thing that we do together where we both come out smelling great. Ever so quietly I open the linen closet in the hallway and pull out three clean dog towels, laying two of them on the bathroom floor. I am the stealth doggy daddy. There is no way on earth Bette can hear me preparing the bathroom for her shower. Last I saw her, she was sound asleep next to Mark, the television was on, and the little electric fan was humming along. When all was ready I went into the bedroom to fetch little stinky. She wasn't there. Bette was hiding in her special place under the China cabinet in the dining room. It's the place where she always hides when she knows that I'm up to something. So I reach under there to grab her, and she skitters away, off into the kitchen. After a few rounds under the table and over the big fluffy chair, I finally catch her.
I don't know how she does it. Bette can sense something is up long before I even make a move. The latest is her pill. I have to give Bette a pill in the morning and once in the evening. Sometimes I mix it in a scrambled egg, sometimes in a bit of ground up meat, but usually I stick it in a little gob of butter and shove it down her throat. If the pill is in her egg, she walks over to it, gives it a sniff, and then turns and gives me the finger. If I try to feed her a bit of ground up meat with the pill also ground up in it, she looks at me with contempt, and spits on the floor. So most of the time the pill is in a gob of butter that I have on the end of my finger. Once again, I am very stealthy. No clanking of the butter dish, no noises that would give her a clue. But every time, as I walk nonchalantly through the house towards little Bette, she takes off. Again, I have to chase her around the house until I catch her and stick a finger full of butter and Phenobarbital as far down her throat as I can.
I swear that dog is psychic. I assume that is why in the middle of the night I often awaken to find her standing on top of me, staring into my eyes, trying to send me a telepathic message that her water bowl is empty.