Yesterday I was at a restaurant (yes, the following conversation took place while we were eating) with a few of my coworkers. Three of us are the parents of very small children and were discussing them somewhat at length. (Of course. Apparently once you have children, you find that you can think of nothing else to talk about other than your children and other people’s children ever again. Incidentally, we discussed that observation as well. Now this parenthetical note has become self-referential. The circle is complete.)
Ever the conversationally-inclusive lunch dates, we inquired about our fourth (and child-free) companion’s pet. She has a dog that is so spoiled, I am convinced it has a better quality-of-life than either of my children.
Anyway. She tells us that she needs to pick up some more bully sticks for the dog. Says this as casually and nonchalantly as I might remark that we are running low on
wine milk and need to be sure to remember to pick some up at the store soon.
Bully sticks. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE ARE?!?
When the rest of us (who have kids but not dogs) asked her to explain, she says (still acting like this is all completely normal) “beef pizzle”.
Are other overly-indulgent pet owners feeding this to their dogs?!?
Apparently beef pizzle is the gourmet treat cuisine of the canine set.
I have never owned or lived with a dog, although I do like them very much
when they belong to other people and don’t smell like moist teenage boy feet. Ever since Stumps won a little goldfish at the fair last fall, I suspected that I may in fact be a fish person.
Now I know for sure.
I consider this coworker (Name undisclosed to protect the guilty. And also because I’ve heard it’s rude to get specific about your IRL acquaintances on your blog) to be a dear friend, but her dog is never ever going to be allowed to lick me.