Ike

Ike, sweet Ike, the most agreeable pup I’ve ever raised.  Cheerful, practical, gets along with everyone, a very easy pup, just 7 months old now.  Ike sits in the corner by the door, eagerly watching the preparations at meal times.  It is a good position, slightly to the outside of the pack with a panoramic view of all that happens around the counter.  At dinner time I just throw hunks of chicken to various dogs from a big tub.  I call the name of the intended recipient, then toss them their dinner.  Every now and then a dog misses, the meat hits the floor, and I bark out a warning to any would be poachers.  Everyone steps back from the prize, and this is when Ike makes his move.  This is when sweet Ike goes feral. 

I belt out another warning, which only spurs my little Canadian predator on.  A black and white blur, he scoops the prize from the floor and beats feet for the other room.  The other dogs scatter as I leap through the pack in pursuit.  The house is small so I can quickly corner the miscreant.  His defense is to try to swallow the meat whole, as quickly as possible.  Getting the food back from Ike is like trying to wrest meat from a hyena in the African bush.  He clamps his jaws down, inhibiting his attempts to swallow but also locking out my hands.  When I finally get my fingers around the contested meal, pulling it from his throat, he immediately tries to snatch it back from my hand while it is still in reach. 

I’ll often feed Ike first, breaking the oldest to youngest rule, to avoid potential mealtime adventures.  I watch him like a hawk.  He does not try to steal food from other dog’s bowls so breakfast, served in bowls, is generally uneventful.  This morning I had a lamb heart to add to their breakfast.  I put it up on the back of the counter in a bowl.  I stepped away from the counter, back turned for two seconds, when I heard a metal bowl hit the floor.  I turned around to see Ike, the feral Ike, running for the living room with the cellophane wrapped heart clenched in his primitive jaws.  It was small enough that I feared he might be able to swallow it entire with not a single moment wasted for mastication.  The thought of the vet bills to remove the lengths of plastic wrap from his gut drove me on.  Captured on the sofa, that round little heart was not easy to grasp from deep in his mouth.  Grab it I did, and so did he while it was still in my hand as I pulled it away from him.

He’s back to sweet Ike now, laying in his bed in the living room.  I like Ike.