After Mike wrote this post about his adventures at home with Rigby while Annabel and I were in New York, a number of readers seemed up in arms over my banning Mike from eating on the couch. Well, in my defense, it should be noted that:
A) We have a new couch; and
Mike spilled on it less than one hour after it was delivered.
Making matters even worse, Mike didn’t spill something harmless like a glass of water. Nope. Mike had to make a spillage of epic proportions by overturning an extra large bowl of cheesy marinara and meatball spaghetti.
ON OUR NEW COUCH!!!
As you can imagine, an intense period of frantic cleaning followed, one which neither Mike nor I ever want to repeat. Because of this Mike eats most of his meals at our work desk, and despite his bluster in his post, he actually ate there even when I was in New York. This he admitted to me before adding, “I may have followed the rules while you were gone, but Rigby did not.”
Rigby, if you remember, had to have surgery last year, and afterward the vet said she could eat nothing but prescription dog food ever again. This order did not make a professional table scrapper like Rigby happy, and it took a long while before she accepted it. Or at least until we’d thought she’d accepted it.
It turns out that one night while I was gone Mike woke to hear a creepy scratching noise emanating from our living room. He sat up, spooked, and the scratching intensified. It was then Mike realized that Rigby, instead of sleeping at the foot of the bed, was gone. Freaked out that whatever was making the awful scratching noise had done something to Rigby, Mike grabbed his baseball bat and snuck into the living room. Upon nervously peering around he saw TWO EYES – about five feet off the ground – staring back at him. Mike screamed, then stumbled backward and flipped on the lights convinced he was going to see a Danny Devito sized intruder ready to attack him. Instead, he saw Rigby on the work desk, lapping up a bowl of – you guessed it – cheesy marinara and meatball spaghetti that Mike had forgotten to put in the kitchen sink.
The amazing thing about this though is that Rigby is a tiny six pound dog that somehow Indiana Jones’d her way onto the work desk which stands high off the ground. Mike and I could only imagine her risking death defying leaps from our couch to our bookshelf to our work desk, all so she could break her diet. That’s some serious food cravings. And she’s not even pregnant.