The Innocence of Doggies

We keep the dog's 20  pound bag of kibble in a cabinet under the kitchen counter.   The bag is torn open  at the top and, when it's  chow time,  I open the cabinet door, reach into the bag and scoop out a cup of kibble which is then emptied into Nicki's bowl.   

(Actually I blend it into a powder to which then I add water so as to make a hamburger-like meal.)

Nicki is certainly smart enough to figure out the significance of the bag-scoop-bowl sequence.  Earlier in the year, he also figured out that if he nudged into the open cabinet quickly enough, he could beat me to the bag and scarf up some extra kibble.

He did this with a guilty mind at first.  I know this because when I would touch his hind sides he would recoil sharply as if to avoid a punishment.    But of course, I never punished him and of late he just casually makes way to let me through, ever scarfing up as much kibble as he can hold in a maw-full.   In all events, he most clearly thinks that this is the way to get extra munchies. 

What never occurs to the sweet, innocent doggie is that I could always lessen the amount I scoop up. 

His cheat makes me feel like a cheater. 

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