My Partner In Crime

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Don't you all wish you had a child that wasn't a picky eater?

Well, in my day, Mother didn't let me leave the table until I ate what SHE put on my plate. And, by the way, Mother NEVER used the words, "What would you like?" We had no choice, not that there were many.

Now, when MR. "S" came along,

he became my buddy in crime. In the crime of eating everything that is strange and smells a bit out of the ordinary. At seventeen years old, he can't see or hear much any longer, but lo, he can SMELL. That little 14 pound rag-muffin can smell when I peel an orange, bite into a carrot, or open a can of sardines. Sardine juice, whether in oil, mustard sauce or Luisiana hot sauce, it doesn't matter; he is my pal!

He and I are much alike. He would eat a skunk's hind-end if it was fried-up right.

So, when the outdated Limburger cheese started to overwhelm the refrigerator with its highly attractive aroma, it was time to partake. "S" and I had overstayed our welcome as far as the smell in the frig goes. He was ready for action the minute I exposed the delicacy to the room.

Homemade bread, with a thick schmeer of the cheese on it, covered with a slice of raw onion, what could be better? A dream come true!

I rubbed a bit of cheese around the plate for him to lick, so my buddy wouln't be mad at me.


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