My Dog the Gambler
But my husband's the easy mark
My name is Jen.
And I have a gambling problem.
It affects every single day of my life.
Oh. Don’t worry. I’m not the gambler.
It’s my dog, Remy.
Who? Me?
But I am the one who pays the price.
For years, Remy has gambled.
Every single day. Twice a day.
I guess I missed the warning signs.
When we picked him over his brother at the breeder’s house, all I saw was what a handsome boy he was. A red and white plush doll.
Remy on the day we met. He didn’t even look real.
And so sweet. When I first held him in my arms, Remy kissed my neck.
His brother, on the other hand, pooped on the carpet.
It wasn’t even a competition.
I started with such high hopes for our pup. I even hired a trainer to come to our house and work with him on the basics of obedience.
But then my husband got involved.
And that’s where the wheels fell off.
The train left the track.
You get the point.
My husband is an Italian nonna at heart.
He is the soft-hearted grandma who loves to spoil the little ones.
He equates food with love.
He subscribes to the Italian nonna credo of “You eat, therefore, I am.” (Apologies to René Descartes.)
And he and Remy are best friends.
A boy and his dog.
So, when I was at work and it was my husband’s turn to feed Remy, if his furry buddy took longer than 1.3 seconds to begin to eat, his co-parent worried that his best friend might starve.
So he would sprinkle something extra on the food.
Diced chicken.
Shredded cheese.
Once Remy realized the rich vein of gold he’d struck, there was nothing that could ever convince him it was worth his while to eat his breakfast or dinner on the first pass.
He wanted his accroutrements.
His award-winning act involved sniffing the bowl, sitting or lying down, and casting his velvety, brown eyes at my husband, as if to say, “Please sir, may I have some Kraft Singles?”
In short, our dog learned that if he placed a bet on his owner’s soft heart, it always paid off.
My husband’s gullibility was a sure thing.
Remy has my husband wrapped around his paw.
And so, by the time he was six months old, Remy had trained my husband well.
Mealtime went something like this:
“Would you care for some shredded meatballs with your kibble, sir?”
“Why yes, I would. And don’t be stingy with the grated parmesan.”
About two years ago, Remy developed a serious intestinal illness that meant he must eat expensive, special food for the rest of his life. (Honestly, it would be cheaper to feed him organic, free-run chicken. Possibly filet mignon.)
No more extras.
I have been at home with Remy the last few years, and so the job of feeding him has fallen to me. Just in time for me to have nothing left to negotiate with.
Meals have become a battle of wits and wills.
Each day, I call him for his breakfast with a leaden sense of futility.
Instead of giving him what he wants and can’t have, I’m forced to rely on:
Fake enthusiasm for the bland food (I rely heavily on my marketing background)
A more serious tone that says, it’s time to get down to brass tacks
An even more serious tone that says, “I mean business, young man.”
Stamping my foot on the ground to tell him that this is it.
Saying, “Do what you want. I’m not playing this game.” In other words, trying to use mother’s guilt on him.
In the end, he walks away and I let him. It’s not worth the ulcer I will get.
But I have learned that patience is a virtue.
I leave the food out all day, just in case he gets peckish. It almost never happens.
Remy is gambling that if he holds out long enough, we will give in and feed him something special. Old habits die hard.
He will lurk around the table at dinner, angling for a taste. The mob has nothing on him.
“I just want to wet my beak… I mean muzzle.”
Finally, after my husband and I are finished, Remy sees the writing on the wall.
He saunters over to his food. bowl and devours his ignored morning breakfast in less than three minutes. I add his evening meal to the bowl, and he inhales that.
You see, it’s not that he doesn’t like his food.
It’s that he doesn’t want to miss out on something better.
My little gambler spins the wheel every day.
Rolls the dice.
Plays the odds.
And my husband taught him everything he knows.
But the most important thing of all?
Remy loves me best 😍
It seems you can teach an old dog new tricks after all.
Great article about your best friend Remy.
I never considered the complexity of raising a pup in a multicultural home. I look forward to more Remy content.