The Englishman was up very early. He let the dogs out, placed a steaming mug of coffee on my bedside table and shut the door so the dogs wouldn't disturb me. The bliss lasted for the time it took for him to back out of the driveway, watched carefully by Chase and Charlie from a front window. Then the torture began.
Knock, knock. Scratch. Low whine. Medium whine. Loud whine. BARK!
I dragged myself out of bed, clutching the cup of coffee. It was early and still dark. I shuffled to the kitchen. The dogs tap-danced on the tile floor begging for me to feed them. I pulled the plastic container of food from the refrigerator. I frowned at it, thinking it looked less full than the day before. "Did your dad feed you?" I asked the two dogs who were wiggling around my legs. They barked. I looked on the floor but did not see any dog bowls. I looked in the sink. Nothing. I grabbed two clean dog bowls and put a small amount of food in each. Chase and Charlie both nibbled delicately at their meal. This was unusual dining behavior for them and deviated from the typical "two bites and done" tactic.
I went back to the bedroom to dress for work, still bothered by the dogs' strange eating etiquette. I searched the kitchen again and I finally found the evidence I needed: two bowls were pushed deep under a counter. Two used bowls. The Englishman had fed them before leaving the house and these two dogs had once again proven themselves to be much smarter than me.
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