Yesterday, according to my parents, the family dog refused to eat anything until Mom made him a fried egg. Kippy has always had a sensitive stomach, but my parents claim his pickiness has worsened since I lived at home for four months in late 2011—when he wouldn’t eat breakfast, I sat next to him and coaxed him to eat his kibble, feeding him, by hand, one piece at a time. Now he sometimes demands to be fed that way just for kicks.
After he ate the egg, Mom took him for a walk around the block, and they stopped at her friend’s house. The friend is one of a few people along Kip’s walking routes that keeps treats for him. There, he cheerfully devoured the same treats that my parents undoubtedly offered him before resorting to cooking. My dog is the best asshole I’ve ever met.
A few hours after that walk, the vet called to tell my parents that Kippy has cancer.
After he ate the egg, Mom took him for a walk around the block, and they stopped at her friend’s house. The friend is one of a few people along Kip’s walking routes that keeps treats for him. There, he cheerfully devoured the same treats that my parents undoubtedly offered him before resorting to cooking. My dog is the best asshole I’ve ever met.
A few hours after that walk, the vet called to tell my parents that Kippy has cancer.
