Et Tu, Biscuit, Brutae?

My poor dearest Maggie.  She wanted a biscuit so very badly this morning.  I held fast, though, and she finally gave up on begging and went into the den.  She sat at my feet for a good hour looking for a handout, though.  She is such a determined little soul.  I don’t blame her.  Dog food has got to get old.  I am thinking of baking her some peanut butter dog muffins this afternoon in recompense.

I heard Charlie first this morning belying Maggie’s usually keen hearing. His new car has a very distinctive exhaust note. I looked out the den window and loudly hollered, “Charlie's here!” and Maggie came a runnin’.  She flew off the bed she was so excited.  She was joyfully barking up a storm when she looked out the window to confirm what I just said. 

In Charlie’s breakfast bag were three bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits, a hash brown, and he also got me a large soda this week with no ice.  Just like I like my soda.  I relish the soda more than I do the biscuits and hash brown.

“Only bring us two biscuits next week,” I told Charlie as I thanked him for this morning’s breakfast.

“What about Maggie’s biscuit?” he asked looking worried.

“People food is making her sick,” I replied.  “She has allergies.”

Charlie reluctantly said okay and headed to his car.

I still have plenty of Helen grilled steak left for lunch, and dad and Charlie will be by tonight for Fried Chicken Sundays and the medication ritual.   Like I said before,  it is either feast or famine around here most weeks.  Next week, I will probably be subsisting on poor man’s bologna sandwiches by the end of the week and weekend.