What kind of Dog snarls at the hand that feeds him? My hand. For no apparent reason?
Dad, you mean you haven’t noticed?
[DK: It’s the end of a long day. I lift my eyebrows, but don’t respond. Rachel assesses her Father’s reception and interprets the non-response as a green-light.]
Well, let me explain it to you.
You are both moody.
And wildly unpredictable.
You can go aggressive “at boo.”
You coming running at the sound of a fridge door opening.
You’ll eat anything.
You don’t share your food.
You wolf down your food without tasting it.
You slurp your soup.
You lick the bowl. And your plate.
[DK: I shift uncomfortably on the couch.]