When we were kids, we had a dog named Kipper. She was an Australian Terrier, whose mother was the dog of one of my dad's close friends.
Kipper had... quirks. And she was not known for being particularly intelligent. Nor for leading a boring life.
Recently, Robin has been requesting "Kipper stories." These stories have turned out to be remarkably effective bribes at the dinner table, so I think I should write them down so that the next time a plate of vegetables is on the line and my mind blanks, I'll have a reference.
May I present the current favorite: The Birthday Cake.
Summer, 1991. My dad's 40th birthday. We spent the day baking a cake, then icing and decorating it. We carefully placed it on the kitchen table before taking Dad out to Ichiban, a Japanese restaurant downtown.
It was a lovely dinner, I'm sure. I recall the chef preparing it at our table, but have no memory of what we actually ate. No matter. We had our cake waiting at home for afterward.
When we returned home, Dan and I were the first to enter the kitchen to see that someone had already started in on the cake. About a third of it was gone. We looked at each other, confused. Mom had placed the cake on the table immediately before we'd left, so that it'd be the first thing Dad would see when we returned. There had been no time to sneak a bite. (If there had been time, I'm sure at least one of us would have so done.) So who could have possibly beaten us to the cake?
The answer struck us both at the same time: Kipper. Despite having a standing height of, at most, twelve inches (and then only when her ears were standing extra-tall), she was known for her ability to jump onto the chairs and then the table to scarf down whatever was available. We'd all learned to make sure that our chairs were fully tucked in when we left the table, but I suppose in the rush to get out the door one of us had slipped up.
What had thrown us off was not that the cake was up on the table. We knew Kipper plenty well enough to know that height was only a partial barrier. What had fooled us into thinking, even briefly, that Kipper might be innocent was the fact that it was done so neatly, so precisely, that you had to look pretty closely to see that the missing piece had not been removed with a knife.
I can just see her, noticing that we'd left the chair out, then jumping up in a flash (we may not have even been out of the driveway) and realizing it was all her Christmases come at once. She must have started with a lick of the icing, nervously waiting for the sound of the garage door opening again, then another lick, and another, before throwing caution to the wind and gulping down cake until she'd had her fill.
I'm not saying we were glad she'd helped herself, but at least we had enough left to add the candles and sing Happy Birthday in the traditional loud, off-key, out-of-time way for which our family is known.
Kipper had... quirks. And she was not known for being particularly intelligent. Nor for leading a boring life.
Recently, Robin has been requesting "Kipper stories." These stories have turned out to be remarkably effective bribes at the dinner table, so I think I should write them down so that the next time a plate of vegetables is on the line and my mind blanks, I'll have a reference.
May I present the current favorite: The Birthday Cake.
Summer, 1991. My dad's 40th birthday. We spent the day baking a cake, then icing and decorating it. We carefully placed it on the kitchen table before taking Dad out to Ichiban, a Japanese restaurant downtown.
It was a lovely dinner, I'm sure. I recall the chef preparing it at our table, but have no memory of what we actually ate. No matter. We had our cake waiting at home for afterward.
When we returned home, Dan and I were the first to enter the kitchen to see that someone had already started in on the cake. About a third of it was gone. We looked at each other, confused. Mom had placed the cake on the table immediately before we'd left, so that it'd be the first thing Dad would see when we returned. There had been no time to sneak a bite. (If there had been time, I'm sure at least one of us would have so done.) So who could have possibly beaten us to the cake?
The answer struck us both at the same time: Kipper. Despite having a standing height of, at most, twelve inches (and then only when her ears were standing extra-tall), she was known for her ability to jump onto the chairs and then the table to scarf down whatever was available. We'd all learned to make sure that our chairs were fully tucked in when we left the table, but I suppose in the rush to get out the door one of us had slipped up.
What had thrown us off was not that the cake was up on the table. We knew Kipper plenty well enough to know that height was only a partial barrier. What had fooled us into thinking, even briefly, that Kipper might be innocent was the fact that it was done so neatly, so precisely, that you had to look pretty closely to see that the missing piece had not been removed with a knife.
I can just see her, noticing that we'd left the chair out, then jumping up in a flash (we may not have even been out of the driveway) and realizing it was all her Christmases come at once. She must have started with a lick of the icing, nervously waiting for the sound of the garage door opening again, then another lick, and another, before throwing caution to the wind and gulping down cake until she'd had her fill.
I'm not saying we were glad she'd helped herself, but at least we had enough left to add the candles and sing Happy Birthday in the traditional loud, off-key, out-of-time way for which our family is known.
