Hi. It’s me. Skye.
I need to talk about something very serious.
Lenny the Bolonka is old. And grumpy. And sneaky.
You wouldn’t think a dog with legs that short could commit organized treat theft, but you would be wrong. Very wrong. Every time a treat appears, Lenny suddenly materializes like a grumbling cloud with fur. He does not politely wait his turn. He does not negotiate. He intercepts. He steals. And then he does the unthinkable.
He does not eat it.
No. He hides it.
Like a pirate. A grumpy pirate with excellent short term memory and absolutely no remorse.
I watch him waddle off with MY treat clenched in his tiny mouth, muttering under his breath like I personally inconvenienced him by being young, fluffy, and correct about everything. He stuffs the treat behind furniture, under blankets, or in secret locations that I am apparently “not allowed” to investigate. And when I look at him, he looks back like, What treat?
Sir. I saw the whole thing.
But recently, the situation has escalated.
Lenny has entered his bold phase.
Now, after hiding a treat for later, he retrieves it and places it directly on his dog bed. Not to eat. Not to enjoy. To display. He lays beside it. Sometimes on it. Sometimes with one paw touching it like a villain guarding a priceless jewel. Then he looks straight at me.
Not a glance. A stare.
His eyes say, I dare you.
He emits a low grumbling noise that sounds like an elderly man arguing with the weather. He does not move. He does not blink. He waits. He wants the confrontation. He wants the drama. He wants me to make the first move.
I stand there politely. I sit. I tilt my head. I deploy my best innocent Sheltie face. The one that usually melts humans instantly. Lenny is immune. He squints harder. He shifts closer to the treat. Sometimes he sighs deeply, as if I have disappointed him simply by existing near his bed.
The audacity is breathtaking.
Everyone says Lenny is harmless because he is small and old and has tiny legs. This is misinformation. Lenny runs an underground treat economy. He hoards. He guards. He taunts. He is fueled entirely by spite and snacks.
And yet, I must admit something difficult.
He is very committed.
Lenny will guard that treat for an hour. Two hours. Sometimes until he falls asleep with his chin resting on it like a dragon protecting gold. I do not take it then. I am not a monster. Also because he wakes up instantly.
So I wait. I observe. I learn.
Because someday, when Lenny least expects it, when the grumbling fades and the eyes finally close, justice will come quietly. Softly. On four fluffy paws.
And when it does, I will not gloat.
I will simply chew.