Essays

Our golden retriever, Elsa, has food sensitivities. This does not mean either that she is loath to eat mere hamburger when there is filet mignon in the world or that she breaks out in a rash at the very thought of kibble. She is not a snob, but has a delicate tummy and colon. I regret having to use the word “colon,” which is unseemly. The only alternatives—“intestines” and “bowels”—are also gross, and “guts” is not specific enough for a writer as fussy as I am. So it has to be “colon,” with my apologies.

The very first week Elsa came to live with us, we discovered she had this condition when fed the wrong foods. I will not dwell on how we were enlightened about this or describe the symptoms, other than to say it was necessary to hire a bulldozer, scalp the sod and first layer of topsoil from our entire yard, have that material decontaminated and disposed of according to stringent Environment Protection Agency rules, and re-landscape the property.

Ever since then, Elsa has eaten a prescription-diet kibble with a big side order of fat-free cottage cheese, certain approved fruits, and a cookie (the one and only cookie) concocted for sensitive diners like her. We have never again experienced an incident requiring the bulldozer or teams of decontamination specialists in hazmat suits.

The only problem now is that the special cookie seems to be a dog’s equivalent of crack cocaine. Elsa knows precisely when she gets a cookie from me or from my assistant, and she is adamant about receiving it. She appears at my side half an hour before the scheduled treat, stares at me unrelentingly and with an intensity that suggests she believes she has the power of mind control. Twice, with only her stare, she has levitated by office chair with me in it, both times six feet off the floor. If given two of these cookies, she crunches them with delight and then often races in celebration through the house at such high speed that everyone present must stand with their backs pressed against a wall and feet well spread, braced for an accidental impact. Visiting dogs have the same ecstatic reaction to these treats.

I do not believe you would react with the same enthusiasm were you to eat one. They have no appeal to the eye; the maker has indulged in a tedious cliché by shaping them like bones. Even dogs aren’t fooled by that deceit. They have an aroma like chicken livers baked in an old shoe. And I can attest from personal experience that they are not an acquired taste and that even after you have eaten an entire bag of them, you will spend hours scrubbing your teeth to get the taste out of your mouth.

Please allow me to recommend a treat that you WILL greatly enjoy, more perhaps than any experience you have had in this decade. My new novel, The Friend of the Family has touched and thrilled many intelligent readers of good taste, like yourself, and I believe it will likewise bring joy to you. After all these years together, you know that I care nothing about anything other than your satisfaction, good health, and happiness.