So, anyway, it was Saturday afternoon and we were at Whole Foods in Ann Arbor, provisioning for the next six months: all the ethnic foods, organic vegetable exotica and other stuff we can't find up here. Being cheapskates as well as foodies, one of our favorite features of Whole Foods is the small "no-commitment" bin of tag-end cheesy bits from elsewhere in the cheese case. As usual, this did not disappoint. I selected a dib of soft Brie-like sheep's milk cheese from France; a dab of artisanal cheddar; a few tiny wedges of cheeses with names I wouldn't attempt to spell or pronounce. Life was good.
We finished up our shopping there and moved on to Trader Joe's down the street. About halfway through this task, though, a "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!" premonition began nagging at my consciousness.
"We'd better check on the dogs," I said. Because, you see, we'd taken Cassie and Gertie along with us on this trip. And they were now in our vehicle alone with several bulging bags of groceries.
FT volunteered to go back to the Jeep while I checked out. As I pushed the shopping cart out the door I saw the expression on her face, sitting there in the driver's seat, and knew that something was amiss.
"I have good news and bad news," I was informed. "The good news is that Gertie has very good taste in food. The bad news is that half your cheese is gone. Oh -- and she also ate a bag of pita chips with the cheese."
Evidently FT arrived at the Jeep to find young Gertrude in the back, happily snarfing down a wedge of cheese. When Gertie looked up to meet FT's eyes, she dropped the cheese and sheepishly scampered back to the front seat. Further investigation found other cheese samples cherry-picked out of the grocery bag and sucked out of their wrappers. Meanwhile, Cassie was impassively staring out the window at passersby: I know nothing.
I'm rather surprised Gertie didn't also open up a nice oaky chard or spicy shiraz to go with her appetizers.
Sometimes a dog can be too damned smart.