You can’t talk about beef jerky around my mom’s dog.

You can’t even spell it out to avoid getting his attention - he recognizes that too! If you say the world - or the letters - he’ll demand it. There’s no getting around it. Don’t say jerky unless you’re prepared to appease the little demon. 

Granted, he usually only accepts jerky from my dad. Us women in the family just aren’t good enough for the job, I guess. My parents are gone right now, and, as usual, he’s being pitiful and walking around the house, crying. I managed to get his interest by holding and shaking the jerky bag, but he wouldn’t take any from me. He just laid down in the hallway and sighed. 

Then I was just stuck with a handful of shredded jerky that my mom’s other dog, Coco, was all too happy to accept. She’s the less heartbroken of the two whenever my parents leave; she just sits on top of the couch, staring at the door or out the window. Sometimes she’ll whimper a little, but that’s only after an hour or so has passed. 

Hopefully no cars drive by the house before they get back, because it’s not very easy to calm them down once they get it in their heads that Mom’s home.