Patrick: Food and Fury (part 1)

Excerpt from Other People’s Pets: Critters, Careers, and Capitalism in Yellowstone Country

A stout, eight-year-old chocolate lab sits on the laundry room floor, staring at his food. His eyes are fixed on the stainless-steel bowl and its goopy contents. “What’s the problem?” I ask him. “Eat your breakfast.” He doesn’t move, just continues to stare at the bowl.

I followed, exactly, the instructions the woman left me for rehydrating, mixing, and presenting his meal. But Patrick will not eat. The ingredients listed on the box of dehydrated powder show nutritional content fit for human consumption: chicken, potatoes, spinach, carrots, flax seed, blueberries, and spirulina. All organic and “sustainably sourced.” I check the information printed on the side of the box to see if I’ve done something wrong. Nope. It would be pretty much impossible to do it wrong. The box tells me to add two cups of water to one scoop of powder, stir well, and then let it sit for two minutes, all of which I have done.

The page of written instructions, which Patrick’s person left on the kitchen counter, also tells me to put half a cup of dry kibble on top of the wet mix. I did that. And yet, instead of eating, this dog sits rigid, staring at the bowl. I am flummoxed. But then I remember the woman telling me, during our interview, that he’d “been picky about eating lately.” And so, I again check her instructions, just to be one hundred percent certain I’ve done everything correctly. I have.

“Come on, Patrick,” I plead, pointing to the bowl. “Looks yummy!” Actually, it looks like overcooked oatmeal with the consistency of snot.

I’m supposed to be at an appointment in an hour, and an after-breakfast walk is included in my instructions. “What is the problem?” I ask, hands on hips, staring at the staring dog. Patrick doesn’t move or respond in any way. He looks like a chocolate statue, rigid body, eyes unblinking and fixed on the bowl. I pull my phone out of the pocket in my black wool sweater and take a picture of him staring at the full bowl of food.

Patrick is the most solid, muscular lab I’ve ever seen. I think of him as a Tonka truck with teeth. And according to the woman he lives with, he loves to eat. He certainly doesn’t look like he’s ever missed a meal. “Okay,” I tell him, shrugging, “I’m just gonna leave you to it.”

I gather what I need for my appointment, set my computer bag by the front door, and then start to clean up in the kitchen. As I run water into the stainless-steel sink, waiting for it to get hot, I hear:

Woof.

What the hell?

Back in the laundry room, Patrick sits exactly as I left him: a statue dog staring at his bowl of uneaten food. He has not taken a single bite. Again, I stupidly ask, “What is the problem?” He continues to stare. I shrug again and turn away. He has food. I’ve done everything correctly. I can’t force feed him. He’ll eat when he gets hungry. I go back into the kitchen and start wiping the counters.

Woof.

Again, nothing has changed in the laundry room. Again, I walk back to the kitchen.

Woof.

“What?” I ask, arms extended palms up, standing in the laundry room doorway. I’m exasperated, frustrated, confused. And getting impatient. I take a deep breath, blow it out, and contemplate the situation while statue dog continues his vigil.

When faced with a conundrum, I often stare at it—the way Patrick is doing—while I wait for an insight. That feels like the best option now. So, we both stare at the bowl, him sitting, me standing. Seconds and minutes pass. Something soft begins to nudge the edge of my mind, fuzzy and undefinable. I know from experience that it cannot be named or hurried. I close my eyes, hold my breath, and sweep my mind clear, giving the thing room to declare itself.

The insight takes shape slowly, like a wispy wraith materializing into a solid form. But once it appears, the knowing is clear and certain: Patrick doesn’t want the dry food in the same bowl as his wet food. “Okay, Patrick.” I say, “Let’s start over.” I grab the bowl off the floor and set it on the counter. Back in the kitchen, I rummage around in cupboards and drawers until I find a small ceramic dish that doesn’t look too precious. I pull it out and pour a scoop of fresh, dry food into it.

When I set the new dish on the laundry room floor, Patrick immediately stands up, drops his face, and crunches through the dry food with great enthusiasm. Yay! I take another photo of him while he eats. When the dish is empty, he turns to look at me, waiting for his second course.

Carefully, I remove every chunk of dry food from the top of the wet food in the original bowl, and add another splash of water. Patrick dances in place while I stir, his black toenails clicking lightly on the gray tiles. Before the bottom of the bowl touches the floor, he leans in to slurp at the goo with his long, pink tongue.

“Okay then. Bon Appetit!”

Back in the kitchen, I squeeze a drop of lavender and basil scented dish soap onto a yellow sponge and swipe it around the inside of a cup. I clean my breakfast dishes and wipe the counters.

Woof.

FFS!

Patrick is again staring at his food bowl, which is nearly empty, except for a few pieces of rehydrated food stuck to the bottom and sides—orange bits that might be carrots and some chunks of brown glutinous who-knows-what stuff. I contemplate this new puzzle for a few seconds. And then I remember the woman telling me, “He likes his food wet.” I always listen carefully when people casually mention their pet’s habits and quirks, because it’s usually important information.

Alrighty then! I carry the bowl to the sink, splash in more water, and swish it around with the remaining chunks of food. Now it looks like I’m about to serve Patrick a bowl of soupy vomit. But it works. He slurps it all up. By the time I carry both empty bowls to the sink, he is a happy, happy dog, prancing, eager for his morning walk.

Before we leave the condo, I attach three photos to a text message: the one of Patrick staring at his full bowl of wet food with the dry food on top; one of him eating dry food from the small bowl; and a picture of both empty bowls. I type, Patrick will eat the dry food, gobbles it up, in fact, if it’s in a different bowl! and attach a smiling dog face emoji.

She replies: That’s so funny!! So resourceful of you. Thanks!

I really hope the next two weeks with Patrick are easy. I need easy. The Keep Notes app on my phone has a long To-Do list waiting for my attention. I have several episodes to edit for my only podcast client who managed to stay in production during the pandemic shutdown.

But first, a walk.

(to be continued)