That's not nice. But I can't help myself. A gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do. And that future record-setter must be stopped. Before I kill.
Farmer H's sport? Dogfood flinging.
We feed our fleabags dry food. Hard, crunchy pellets. Each morning at 6:00, save Sundays, Farmer H tromps through the laundry room and steps out onto the back section of the wrap-around Mansion porch. He opens the metal trash can that acts as a canine canister for feed, and dips out three cups of food. One cup at a time. He dispenses it into each of three flat metal pans. Because our dogs do not share a meal nearly as peacefully as the cats do out of their single metal roasting pan in the garage.
Imagine, if you will, a jai alai player with his long, curved wicker scoop attached to his arm, running at the dog dish, winding up, and flinging those hard pellets at 188 miles per hour. Then imagine the sound. Three times
I rest my case.
Feeding them steak would alleviate the problem. Tossing one filet minon into each bowl would be almost completely silent. Farmer H could feed the pups and not disturb a soul.
ReplyDelete(They probably would not even ask for them to be cooked.)
Think about it, Hillbilly Mom.
Somebody needs to move to the BARn soon.
ReplyDeleteSioux,
ReplyDeleteFarmer H would NEVER toss a filet mignon to the fleabags. He LOVES filet mignon. It's his favorite cut. I daresay he loves it more than a piping hot tower of vegetable beef soup!
Does anybody make meat-flavored marshmallows? Because that's what I would like to hear flung into the dog dishes every morning. I call dibs on that patent! Meat-flavored marshmallows. Perhaps BACON-flavored marshmallows. So PEOPLE could enjoy them, too!
******************
knancy,
Farmer H has no idea how close he is to pulling up stakes and resettling across the field. Though with it being summer, he might prefer to reside creekside, in his log cabin and accompanying outbuildings.