Anyways, one day I discovered what some pet food companies insert into dog food and biscuits. There’s plenty of info on the topic online, so I won’t go into the specifics. Instead, here’s my solution to the problem: I began cooking my own dog food at home, using the same groceries we purchased at the store for our own meals. And of course, while they loved the ground beef, tuna, eggs, oatmeal, and no-salt canned veggies, like all kids their favorite part of the meal was dessert.
Even when they were teenagers, the vet commented on their continued health. And sassiness. These puppy cookies, as I call them, were likely the main cause. Not the spoiling.
It’s been two years now since they’ve gone. Miss you, kids.
Dessert: Puppy cookies
Combine 1/2 cup each of corn meal, powdered milk, and oatmeal. Stir in 2 cups of whole wheat flour (white flour also works). Use a pastry cutter to cut in 1/4 to 1/2 cup fat, drippings, or shortening. Stir in one egg and resist the temptation to add another when it doesn’t seem to be enough; trust me, you will regret surrendering to that temptation when the dough turns into a gooey, yucky mess. Granted, mine ate these and begged for more no matter what I did to it.
By the time I reached this point in the recipe, Worf was generally lying on the kitchen carpet behind me, tail quivering nonstop, and Tasha was watching from beneath the table, teeth gleaming with a feral pant.
Stir in sufficient water to form a stiff dough; too much and you won’t like yourself here, either. Between 1/2 cup and 3/4 cup is plenty.
Thickly dust a cutting board with flour. Turn out the dough and dust it again. Knead the mess for five minutes, adding flour to achieve a stiff, exhaust-your-fingers texture that doesn’t stick to everything it touches.
Divide dough into quarters. Roll it out fairly thin, to 3/8 or 1/2 inch at most. Use a knife to cut it into little squares. Microwave on high for three minutes. Flip them over and continue microwaving on high until they’re hard to a thumbnail thump. They also bake in a regular or toaster oven. Thicker biscuits require longer to cook.
None of this is rocket science so while cooking, don’t sweat the proportions too much. While feeding, keep in mind that this is dense food; it’s very easy to both over- and under-feed, leading to heavy dogs (not good) or thin ones that lick their bowls all day (entertaining but not good either).
In August 1940, German Army Major Faust is captured by the English and he must escape before they break him. But every time he gets away, a woman is raped and murdered, and the English are looking for someone to hang. Faust must catch the killer, even though he’s helping the enemy — even though he’s making a Deal with the Devil.
Something soft and annoying whooshed past his face. Faust brushed at it, but it was already gone and he was too fragging sleepy to care. He dropped his arm to the bed.
There was no bed.
There wasn’t anything. His arm was dangling out in space. So was the rest of him. Faust snapped his eyes open. A strong wind pummeled him, tumbled him head over turkey. The ground was a long way down. He was falling and it was real, not some stupid nightmare.
Panic leapt like a predator through his veins. He twisted, fighting against gravity. An icicle of light from the distant ground stabbed at his eyes, swept past him, and several red flashes popped in quick succession. A rumbling vibrated the air, something sounding like an artillery round exploded nearby, and sharp chemical smoke scoured his nostrils.
Tight cords wrapped about his body, between his legs, jerking him upright and throwing him higher, dangling him across the light-slashed night sky. The rumbling intensified. His head snapped back. Above him, a parachute canopy blazed white in the spotlight from below. Beyond it loomed a huge dark beast, moving past in impossible slow motion. It towered over him. The parachute danced closer, second by drawn-out second; then it bowed, canted, and slid away, laying Faust on his back as it hauled him aside.
He gripped the harness shroud lines, chest and belly flinching. It was the bomber, the one he’d been riding in. The belly hatch framed Erhard’s laughing face, lit from below by a spotlight. With one hand, Erhard clutched the rubber coaming, cupping the other about his mouth. He yelled something — something short — which was overwhelmed by the racket and growing distance.
Maybe the plane was having mechanical problems — but they and the mechanics had tuned the Heinkel’s twin engines all afternoon. No one else was bailing out.
Erhard had thrown him overboard.
It didn’t matter how much schnapps he’d slugged nor how drunk he remained. When Faust hit the ground, Erhard was toast.