Harley swept into the kitchen of her Brownstone and plopped the restaurant carryout bags on the shiny marble counter. “Gordy, Prescott?!” she called out. “I’m back!” She was hungry enough that she came close to simply sticking her snout into the bags and inhaling the food. But she remembered that the buffaloes were around somewhere and likely to walk in at any moment. They would surely give her grief about ‘bolting’ her food or some other garbage about her health. To avoid the aggravation, she got a plate from the cabinet and set it on the counter next to the bags. As she was removing food from the bags and placing it on the plate, she allowed herself a small sample, just to take away the sharpest hunger pangs. Once her plate was filled, she carried it to the other side of the counter and climbed onto the cushioned bar stool. Realizing she had not asked for a to-go cup for her gravy, she climbed down from the stool and went to the refrigerator to see what drink choices were available. “Wheat grass, barley juice, rice milk, soy milk,” she muttered, irritated. “Don’t they want me to be even a little bit happy?” Finally, she found a lone bottle of plain water way in the back and grabbed it. Resignedly, she skulked back to her seat, climbed up and began to munch her food.
When Gordy and Prescott entered the kitchen a few moments later, Harley was stretching her tongue out the side of her snout, trying in vain to lick the last bits of pot pie from her chin. Spotting the buffaloes, she quickly snatched up a paper napkin and wiped her snout clean. “Hello, Gordy, Prescott,” she greeted them, shifting in her chair so the Southside Café carryout bag was less visible. “I got your text message at the Café so I just asked for my food to go and thought I’d come home and eat with you. You weren’t here when I came home so I just went ahead. Didn’t want to be late for my spa appointment.”
Gordy and Prescott stared pointedly at the carryout containers on the counter.
Harley looked uncomfortable. “Did you want some takeout?” She smiled in what she hoped was a casual, ‘I’m not having anything that’s not on my diet’ way. “There’s plenty to share – I planned on saving some for my supper later and then maybe for a late night snack …?” she ventured. Gordy and Prescott remained silent.
After a few moments, Prescott shook his woolly head. He looked at Gordy, then at Harley and shook his head again.
Harley reluctantly began loading the containers of food back into the bag. “It was healthy food,” she grumbled. “Just vegetables and stuff,” she added petulantly.
Gordy aimed a hard look her way.
Harley squirmed in her chair. “Pot pie with mashed potatoes and an empty tart shell,” she admitted grudgingly.
Gordy raised his shaggy eyebrows.
Harley said, “The tart of the day was grub and I told them to hold the grubs. Hence the empty tart shell.” She smiled. “A healthy vegetable pot pie and no dessert,” she finished triumphantly.
Prescott opened the carryout bag with one hoof and peered inside. He looked over at Gordy and then they both looked at her.
Harley tried to look at them, but couldn’t. She looked over their humps, then to the left and then to the right. Finally, she sighed.
“Meat.” Harley hung her head. “There was meat in the pot pie.” She looked up suddenly, a bright expression on her face. “I’m sure it was some low calorie, healthy kind of meat,” she pleaded.
Gordy and Prescott continued to peer inside the carryout bag and then at her.
“Okay, I don’t know what kind of meat was in the pot pie,” Harley grinched. “Meat, meat. I didn’t ask for details. I was starving. I mean starving. I had to walk all the way to the Café and then the snooty waiter was being all Frenchy and my blood sugar was so low I was about to pass out and I couldn’t understand what the waiter was saying except that everything was grubs this and grubs that and I just said bring me food or I’m going to die and they did.” She added sulkily, “It’s not like I asked to be so hungry. I couldn’t help it. I’m just a baby!”
Gordy and Prescott moved to stand on either side of Harley’s chair. Gordy rested his bearded chin on top of her head.
Prescott nodded and nuzzled her with his great shaggy hump. He snuffled softly and then Gordy grunted in agreement.
“But I don’t want to be active!” Harley cried. “I want to lay around and roll. To sleep all day and eat cheese. The pressure is just too much! I’m not Mary Lou Rettin for crying out loud! I’m just one glossy little dog!”