Food Fight

With the unerring precision of a Swiss watch, the tiny one knows when it's 4 o'clock and as predictably as day follows night, suddenly erupts like a wind-up toy on steroids. He begins to jump, howl, paw at me and frantically dance around, all the while yapping as steadily as a car alarm and twice as loud. When I hush him, he looks aggrieved. If I scold him, he looks wounded. In the end, it's either feed him or risk going deaf and slightly mad.

At the first sign of my giving in, he races for the kitchen - breathlessly still yapping - and skids across the floor as he tries to herd the cats out of the way and get there ahead of the little dachshund. Cats scatter to the safety of the counters and begin their own song and dance.

Only the little dachshund, having retrieved his stuffed lamb and placed him next to his dish, sits quietly, watching and waiting patiently as I fill food bowls with Mighty Dog and measure out Pedigree Little Bites and Friskies.

“I'm not feeding Lambchop,” I remind him and ruffle his ears, “He can have some of yours.”

I chase the kitten away from the dogfood, let the dogs have what leftovers the other cats leave, and the feeding frenzy is finally over. Both dogs obediently trot outside while I clean up and at long last, the house settles down.

I've had dogs for as long as I can remember. They've been big, small, sweet, unpredictable, passive, aggressive, stubborn and even schizophrenic. Some were mild mannered and perfectly well behaved and some were holy terrors. They came in all colors and coats and temperaments but none prepared me for a demanding, loudmouth, bossy little ball of fluff Yorkie who can tell time.