Don't Feed the Animals...

I learned a very important lesson this past weekend:

One should never feed the neighbor's dog hotdogs and spareribs if said neighbor appears agitated by one's childish, compulsive, dog-feeding behavior.

But I couldn't help myself, see. I have this thing, a thing with no name that is buried deeply within my cerebral cortex that compels me to feed processed foods to adorable, furry faces.

My cat, thank goodness, is smart enough to turn her nose up at the slices of salami and curls of Cheetos I throw her way (although she enjoys bouncing that sweet nose of hers against the offending materials, getting a whiff or two and licking her chops for ten hours afterward), but dogs, now they appreciate crap. Love the crap. Live for the crap.

I am only too happy to fulfill their crappy wishes.

Unfortunately, I have zero capability when it comes to reading others' body language and/or tone of voice. I figure, hey, I'm loving that the dog is loving the crap, so everyone else is loving it too, right?

***obnoxious buzzer***

***Patti LaBelle screech***

***maniacal laughter***

Well, apparently NOT. Took me a while to figure out the error of my dog-feeding ways, but it finally hit me yesterday that the vibe I was picking up from my neighbor wasn't altogether lovey-dovey, and perhaps I should just come out and ask my neighbor if it was bothering her that I stuffed pounds of bologna into her beagle's maw on a regular basis.

I said, "Bambi-Jo, please be truthful with me -- do you not want me feeding Shloob (not the dog's real name)? I mean, because if it does in fact bother you, I will never again sneak Shloob forty bratwurst, complete with mustard and onions. Just say the word, my friend, just say, Ms. Lori, stop feeding my dog, you stupid fuck."

There was a short, uncomfortable silence, then Bambi-Jo said -- with a straight face, mind you -- "Ms. Lori, stop feeding my dog, you stupid fuck."

Heaven help the likes of me -- I am a dolt.