I LOVE FOOD

It is time to bury some dining myths with the bones in the back yard

Hi. You know who I am. (Pardon the mess in the background, which is no longer there as this is a throwback portrait.)

As the days grow chilly, I am here to counterbark at a dismaying howlstorm of misinformation about food that has appeared on this very site.

Food is love, and love to be enjoyed with full attention whenever it is provided. Also, routines (like fastprancing around town) are essential to proper biological living, and so I choose to receive my meals once a day, in bulk.

This is how my body rolls. But as a perk, this natural rhythm allows me to game the process, making myself even smarter and increasing my chances of obtaining ever more bonus eats. Boo ya, and allow me to explain.

Careful research has confirmed that at 50 pounds/22.7 kilograms, I require three cups of kibblechow per evening. My activity level nudges this up to three and one-half.

Many years ago, I came to understand that this three-and-one-half-cup quota would be fulfilled by three cups of kibblechow and one-half cup of bonus eats. Bonus eats are—not to put frowns on any muzzles—cooked portions of other animals or their heated embryonic remains, without any of the nasty saccharine condiments the chef applies to his (far greater) portions of these bonus eats.

Over time, I have determined that I can force an increased ratio of bonus eats to kibblechow through basic patience, kindly glances, paw swats, low moans, ample whining, and if needed the resting of my entire head on the chef’s lap. I end up ingesting the same amount of stuff; but on many days, wearing down the opposition through relentless and rotating applications of the above stratagems leads to almost a cup of bonus eats.

There is an arms race element to this: As the chef has tried to crumble the bonus eats into smaller and smaller pieces so as to force consumption of the surrounding kibblechow, I have responded in turn by improving the efficiency of my extraction operation.

A standard procedure is to receive three cups of unadulterated kibblechow soon after nightrise. This amounts to around 512 pieces, take or give. Thence commences a waiting game, usually two minutes, before the inevitable initial sprinkling of bonus eats drops. This consists most often of grilled chicken breast or shredded Maw…Matza…oh, pizza cheese.

If feeling frisky, I will sometimes embark on a second wait before my first swallowing session in the hope of even more bonus eats in this round. But most of the time, I eat all the bonus eats and half of the kibblechow. At this point I typically hydrate modestly to bolster the palate and hasten the inner mashing of all meal components, setting in motion another detente of unknown duration and gamesmanship.

With perhaps 256 pieces of kibblechow left, if patient, I become entitled to bonus eats from the microwaved egg or ground-beef family. Now having gathered bacchanalian momentum from the first round, I waste no time in reducing the level of new bonus eats to zero and that of the kibblechow to approximately 128 rapidly expiring pieces. A brief wait often leads to a modest smattering of bonus eats; I make short work of these, along with 64 pieces of kibblechow, plus or minus.

You may be able to detect a pattern here. In theory, I will never quite finish my kibblechow on any given evening, and will hence never stop receiving bonus eats.

In the real world, while it is true that some kibblechow almost always remains in the blue serving pot at mealtime’s end, the bonus eats somehow always taper off to nothing.

More research is needed in the war against dining misinformation. When this comes to fruition, the blue serving pot will start full of three cups of bonus chow and a sprinkling of kibblechow on top, the one to make me better appreciate the other.

I hope everyone has learned many lessons today. Oh my belleh.