Pigs in a Blanket

“You have to come see what your grandson is doing now,” my son-in-law George said. “Guess he found something in the pantry that he wanted.”

Apparently 25-month-old Destructo’s new door-opening skills were paying off.

When I arrived on the back deck, little Destructo was shoveling inch-long, imitation pigs-in-a-blanket doggy biscuits into his mouth. By his mother’s count, he’d already scarfed half a dozen. She had that sort of stupefied-with-pride look on her face as she watched him intently. George scratched his head, looking to me for either validation that it was okay to let the kid fill himself to the gills or an urgent warning that a poisoning was in progress and we ought to stop the madness. Certainly the child’s mother was too entranced to undertake any decision-making.

“Guess it can’t hurt him,” I said as he shoved another one into his mouth. “They’re dog treats. They must be, er, edible.”

Big sister Miss America gaped incredulously at the all-knowing adults. Even at four-and-a-half, she knew the proper protocols for dog treats did not include human consumption.

Then my daughter awoke from her trance. "Try one,” she challenged George.

George and my daughter share a mischievous love of dares. They taunt each other to try things, just so one can claim superiority over the bigger wuss who fails to show the appropriate courage -- however stupid that might ultimately prove. George hesitated only a moment, then shoved his hand in the box and pulled out a cylindrical biscuit. We all squinted as he chewed the crunchy morsel expectantly. “Oh! There it is!” He recoiled as he tasted something afoul.

Destructo happily shoved another pig-in-a-blanket into his mouth, and my curiosity got the better of me. Tugging on the box (Destructo was not inclined to share), I plucked out a biscuit, examined it for purity, freshness, and cleanliness, because I would recognize that in a dog biscuit if I saw it, and then bit it in half. Hmmm. Crunchy . . . dry . . . bland . . . dry . . . swallowable, barely. I popped the other half in my mouth, because I don’t like to leave things unfinished.

I shrugged. “Not bad.” My tongue lapped noisily at the parched roof of my mouth, and I couldn’t help scanning the deck for a water bowl.

Destructo enjoyed several more biscuits while our chihuahua waited patiently below him for a morsel to be tossed his direction, while I went for my camera. I mean, is there anything cuter than a two-year-old chowing on dog food?
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