The Lord of the Pringles

I've done it. I've spoiled the dog. Isn't it interesting how when you have a pet such as a dog, it becomes 'the' dog, as though no other such animals exist on the face of the Earth?

He's not even my dog. He's Gaspode, my son's family's Australian Shepard. He's a cool dog and he likes potato chips. Well, like most dogs his palate is not really all that well defined. But when he and I get together it's all about the Pringles. Or the Better Mades or the Ruffles or the Lays. I told you his palate wasn't all that well defined.

So he eats whatever I have on hand and follows me around as soon as he sees me to see what I might have available. The anticipation on his face gets right to me, so much so that I have to give him a salty snack every time we meet. But you know what? His weight problem isn't my weight problem, nor is mine his. 

So we get along just fine with our chips, and he doesn't mind one bit being spoiled.