Dogs have place in kitchen

When I acquired a dog in March, I was pleased he didn’t beg. When I ate or cooked, Caesar slept or watched me.

Then came the night of the Fateful Bread Bite. While snacking on bread in the kitchen — by which I mean “corner of the living room with appliances” — I threw a bite in the dog bowl.

Now, if I stand in the kitchen snacking, Caesar may well appear at my feet with perked ears and a doggie grin. At least he doesn’t generally beg if I sit at the table like a civilized person.

Caesar doesn’t barge in every time I’m in the kitchen, but sometimes he apparently feels compelled to search for anything edible on the floor at my feet. I get an exercise in alertness to avoid tripping.

Once, I gave Caesar chicken fat scraps. It seemed like a handy way to treat the dog and dispose of the fat.

He’d been calmly hanging out on the couch. After the scraps, he relocated to the floor directly under my feet, though he backed off — a bit — after a few minutes.

Actually, Caesar’s antics amuse me, so I ignore his appeals rather than getting mad. Besides, he made cleanup much easier last time I spilled tuna.