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Advice & More August 2015

They'll Be Watching You!

By Deborah Camp

Recently I laughed out loud when I saw a Facebook post featuring a black dog with large, expressive eyes peeking over a sofa. Across the post were the lyrics of the Sting song, but with a twist. "Every snack you make, every meal you bake, every bite you take, I'll be watching you."

Okay, Boomers and Beyond, remember that song made popular in the early 1980s by the rock band called The Police? The one with the lyrics, "Every breath you take, every move you make, every step you take, I'll be watching you." The song, sung by the now 62-year-old Brit known simply as Sting, had an uneasily stalking tone to it but the tune was infectious and stayed at the top of the U.S. pop charts for eight weeks in 1983.

Recently I laughed out loud when I saw a Facebook post featuring a black dog with large, expressive eyes peeking over a sofa. Across the post were the lyrics of the Sting song, but with a twist. "Every snack you make, every meal you bake, every bite you take, I'll be watching you."

Boy oh boy, does that ever describe our household. I can't even sneak a paltry snack upstairs because there are always eight sets of alert ears ready to pounce if they suspect food is going to appear. Any of them can be sound asleep in our back-of-the-house bedroom, and all it takes is the sound of a cabinet opening or the accidental rattle of some wrapper and they will skitter into the kitchen with vaguely accusing looks on their faces — ready to partake in whatever I've got. I've even tried running the faucet full blast to disguise the sound of a can opener, but it doesn't work.

Recently two of our cats have taken up guarding the fridge all day long. Yellow Man lounges in front, blocking access and asserting a superiority few would dispute. His sidekick Flash completes the refrigerator blockade and casts a peckish look when I dislodge them. I guess they figure if they can't have it then neither can I.

The other afternoon I opened up a big, fat, ripe watermelon. The rattling of knives and cutting board immediately drew an attentive audience. The dogs were out at the time so it was just our clowder of felines, each settling into a position awaiting the moment I might let them sample this tasty treat. "Nicht fur katzen!" I intoned. (No, I don't speak German. I just know a few handy phrases like "not for cats"!)

They were not deterred, no matter what language they were being told no in. So, once the melon was sliced into chucks, placed into Tupperware containers and transported to the fridge, a complaint was issued by Flash who by this time had climbed atop the chef's table. She whined her disgust and reached out with one paw to snag my hand as I put away the final container.

"Oh, okay. You are not going to like this. Trust me." I took out a small piece, sliced it into even smaller portions and placed bits of sweet, red, juicy flesh on the floor. They sniffed it, nosed it, and then one by one rejected the snack. "I told you so."

I have to imagine that at times it's not really about the actual food. It's probably more like how Sting described his song, which became the band's biggest hit, "It's about jealousy and surveillance and ownership."

 

Contact Deborah Camp at 590-0050, or This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.  for comments or suggestions.

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