Pardon The Tongue Art On The Stick Of Butter

Lisa and I eat dinner at the table. Sometimes we play cards. Sometimes we'll just sit and chat about our day. Exchange banter. Vent. Rant. Laugh until we 'bout near choke. Coco very seldom hangs out in the kitchen. He could care less what we're eating unless it's grilled cheese or a whole roaster chicken fresh out of the oven. Sophie and Lobo lounge on their pet pillows we put on the kitchen floor while we're eating. They watch our every move. Quietly. Hoping we'll drop a morsel of food.

Or let them sit on the table while we eat.

Yes, you read that correctly.

For this very reason, we purchased a thick woven table runner so they wouldn't have to sit on hard wood while up on the table. This was after we tried a tablecloth. It was too thin. They didn't like it.

They sit on the table runner. We give them small nibbles of food from our fork. Most of what I make is pup and human friendly.

Meanwhile, Coco is stretched out. In his glory. Napping. Snoring. Enjoying his alone time and having the sofa or bed all to himself.

Coco doesn't like being on the table. He's afraid of surfaces that are too high for him to jump down from. He takes after me. I'm terrified of heights.

The four of us are at the table. The conversation continues to flow. Sophie and Lobo are well mannered while on the table.

Most times. 

Sophie likes to belt out a good burp on occasion. Lobo tries to lick the stick of butter.

On the occasional night when we have spaghetti, Lisa tries to reenact the spaghetti scene from Lady and the Tramp with Sophie and Lobo.

I take photos of them on our table while we're eating. Especially the spaghetti scene.

Up until recently, I didn't share these photos on Facebook or my other social media streams. I didn't want to deal with snarky remarks concerning our unconventional dinner arrangements.

So far, there have been none. If that should change, well, I'll cross that bridge when it happens.

It won't be pretty.

In the meantime, we'll continue to enjoy what has become a tradition of sorts. Our home. Our rules.

And, please pardon the tongue art on the stick of butter.