Food, Glorious Food!

Ruby is the epitome of a Beagle. She is ruled by her nose. When she smells something, anything delectable, she has a complete brain bypass. Her resistance is non-existent.  She proved this fact just after we moved to Heavenly Beverley. On a winter's afternoon, a delicious scent teased her into total submission on a walk with us. We were irrelevant. The other Stooges were irrelevant. The cat who had accompanied us on the walk by the filling Avon was irrelevant. All that mattered to Ruby was tracking down this irresistible culinary delight.

We lost her that afternoon and feared she had gone forever. We imagined her  drowning or being run over, given her habit of wandering aimlessly onto roads. We were distraught. Needless to say, she rocked up on the front doorstep, stinking abominably, cold and thirsty. She staggered into the house, drank an entire bowl of water, threw up all over the living room floor and retired to bed. She was fully recovered by the following morning....

This experience did not improve her nose - brain - stomach interface (great wank word there). She has continued to have appalling eating preferences and manners. Her favourite foods are dinner, the pre-rinse cycle, hard plastic, pigs' ears, cat pooh, chicken tenders, bird seed, bird pooh, any food she can nick (particularly if we leave food unguarded on the table or bench) and I regret to say, dog pooh, usually not her own. The piece de resistance is that she enjoys bringing dog pooh into the house to share the joy around, mostly on Pip and Sascha's bed, not her own.

And Ruby is  just besotted by food. She thinks she hasn't made this clear enough, so she likes to remind us, frequently. Even if she has just eaten, she is always looking, hoping, pleading. She is like an extreme version of Oliver Twist - please Sir, I want some more!

Last night was an instance that reduced us to tears. Of laughter. Ruby had demolished her dinner in her usual inimitable style. I had made Michael and me a beef and beer pie. I figured that the pie smelt quite good, but we were unprepared for Ruby's sustained and high-pitched conversation with the aforementioned  pie.

The leftovers of the pie were on the kitchen bench. Ruby lay on the floor, howling, cajoling, begging the pie to edge forward to the edge and take a leap of faith onto the floor. She could not understand why the pie didn't respond in the affirmative. She ended up worshipping the pie as a deity in the misguided hope that would move the pie to take action, do its duty and meet its date with destiny. Otherwise known as landing conveniently in Ruby's mouth.

Sadly, this was not to be. The pie cooled enough to be rehomed in the fridge. Ruby was devastated. Today she lived in hope again as I unearthed the leftovers for dinner. Alas, her dreams were dashed. She had to resign herself to being on cleanup duty of the pie dish with Sascha. She took her job seriously and completed the task with due diligence.

We sit, all of us fed, contented and comfortable. Sascha and Pip are lying in front of the fire. The cat is asleep, curled up on the couch as only she can. Ruby has retired to the doggy bunk beds in the laundry. By herself.

That is Ruby to a tee.

Ruby has always taken her duties very seriously...

...whilst Sascha is very alert...

...and Pip tends to be more alarmed...

...whereas the cat would prefer that they all sod off and leave her in peace.