So, when Baron von Philadelphia was watching my apartment, he went through 3 boxes of dog biscuits in 2 weeks. The routine: after we get back from the night walk, Prosper (that's my dog) gets a dog biscuit. Prosper is fine with this. At no other point in the day does he cast upward his wistful brown eyes. But now, every time I so much as look in the direction of the kitchen, guess what's on boy-boy's canine mind? So I'm weening him back to the prior, abstemious routine.

Last night, Special Guy slept over. (Great as usual. "Yeah! Right down my throat!" being the operative bon mot.) Before we went to bed, I heard the unmistakable *clunk* of a biscuit hitting the linoleum floor in the kitchen, followed by chewing. And then I heard it twice this morning.

What is going on here? Do my nearest and dearest believe that I'm some sort of Dr. Mengele? Slowly starving my dog? Is it a bid for my approval, as in, "I'll be nice to his dog, and then he'll like me more"? Folks, rub his tummy. Scratch that spot on his butt. Lay off the Milk Bones.