the dog who cried Pesto

So Maria and I get home from a hard day at the ski hills. We did not go skiing, but we were impersonating media which means we got press passes and exclusive access to the freestyle ski competition in Ste Afele about 10 mins from our house. Maria turned our video camera on (to impersonate our being press) and somehow got me to interview the silver medal winner from Finland. We had arrived maybe 10 minutes before this and I had seen 2 people do their freestyle magic. I had no idea who he was, had no idea what to say, so it was a profound interview.

So we get back from a long day of lying. Tookie's in the house waiting to be let out of the house so that he can get back to lying (there's that word again) on the snow. Maria and I hook him up on his little outside chain so he can luxuriate in the cold (luscious caramel, rich milk chocolate), and we realize that we are famished. All of our big plans to slow roast a chicken, with sweet potatoes, and brown rice (with a tamari and lemon sauce) are put on hold in favor of the quick retreat of quesadillas. Maria says, "Provigo had these pesto tortillas on sale so that's what we've got". I'm so hungry that I don't balk at this odd taste combination of basil, garlic, in a tortila, and then melted cheese and then topped with guacamole, salsa and plain yogurt.

Next thing we know Tookie is begging to be let in. He plops himself down at Maria's feet and proceeds to beg. "For what?" we ask him. We point to our quesadillas. "This? You hate guac!"

He's almost crying tears at this point.

Maria's finished her quesadilla. But I have a small square of just tortilla and melted cheese. I offer it to him, dubious. He smells it a long time, and then gobbles it down. He's crying again. He never does this. Maria makes herself another quesadilla, and gives him part of hers. He eats it and crosses his paws. He's crying again. More? I make another one for me. Give him part. He's moving his paw like it's on an etch a sketch and he's drawing a picture. A sign maybe that says Will Cry for Quesadilla.

I ended up make him his own quesadilla. His own pesto, cheese, quesadilla. He ate it with dog gusto. At which point we both yelled at him, "That's it. You're cut off."

He stayed at his station until we'd cleared the table and washed the dishes. Put them away even.

Thus concludes a very strange and hilarious day.