This past weekend, our friend, Howard, turned 60. They had a party and bonfire in his honor at his home in NH. Having no one to take care of the dogs, we prevailed upon him (and he was gracious enough) to let us bring Simba and Belle. Simba would be no problem, having stayed with him three years ago when we went to Arizona for two weeks (although that in itself was a story for another blog on Simba's World some day). But Belle, being so afraid of anyone who isn't me, Pete, Margie or my mom was going to be be in major stress mode with about 30 guests in a strange environment. So, with a mild vet-prescribed dose of anti-anxiety med in hand, we set off for NH.
Howard's daughter had gone through travails innumerable, which we won't go into, to get his birthday cake made in time for the party and bonfire. She barely made it, being in the process of running to the store for additional butter to make extra icing as the recipe didn't make enough to cover the cake (which was delicious). She left it on the counter at one point later in the evening, prior to the singing of Happy Birthday, and went out to join in the bonfire fun. As she left, I made sure the cake was tucked way back on the counter, not wanting to repeat the Irish Whiskey Cake Incident of 2010, which I shall go into later in this blog.
She went out. I was sitting in the recliner in the living room reading, having already had my time at the bonfire and now nursing a chronically arthritic and swollen ankle. I saw that Simba, aka "Miss Piggy" had snuck into the kitchen and was "scrounging" around for scraps on the floor. I called her in and thought nothing more of it. Last I knew, Belle was sleeping at my side on the floor. About 20 minutes later, Howard's son and daughter came into the living room, stifling laughter.
"Does Belle like cake?" they asked.
OH NO... I had a feeling what I would see when I went into the kitchen. And I was right.
Sitting on the counter, well back, where I had pushed it, was the birthday cake. With one side of the frosting completely eaten off the cake.
I. Was. Mortified. I never heard her leave my side. Yeah. The Little Yellow Stealth Missile is what I should call her from now on.
Of course, Howard's kids were laughing their heads off. They are Dog People as am I. But still. I mean... really, Belle? Howard's 60th? Thirty guests? And they're going to present a birthday cake to sing "Happy Birthday" to with half of the frosting licked off? A party planner's worst nightmare. Right up there with the Thanksgiving Turkey being stolen and devoured by the family dog. Groan. And then we just looked at each other, Howard's kids and I. And we laughed and we laughed and we laughed.
It brought back memories of a St Patrick's day dinner two years ago. I made a full corned beef and cabbage dinner. I wanted to do something special for dessert, so I did some research and came up with a recipe for an Irish Whiskey Cake. We had a couple of generous slices, and then I covered the cake on the plate with foil and put it in the refrigerator.
The next day I was working in my office (which was downstairs at the time). I heard a noise and came upstairs to investigate. There I found Belle in the kitchen, standing in front of the refrigerator, whose door she had somehow managed to open. Still sitting in the refrigerator, right where I had left it, was the cake plate, with the foil domed over it perfectly ... with no cake. I mean she had eaten the cake, leaving no crumbs, without disturbing the plate or the foil domed over it.
There was 1/4 cup whiskey in the cake, itself, which didn't worry me as the alcohol cooked out of that. HOWEVER, the glaze also had 1/4 cup of whiskey, which had NOT been cooked.
Simba took an ill-fated step in to try to "scrounge" looking for crumbs on the floor, and Belle attacked her. Yes, Dear Sweet Belle can be food aggressive with Simba sometimes. Such an ugly drunk, my Little Yellow Dog. Anyway, I broke up that spat and called the vet who advised me to induce vomiting, not so much for the whiskey as for all that sugar. I called my supervisor at work and took the rest of the day off so I could sit outside with Belle until she "purged herself" of the evil spirits.
I sat out in that backyard for over an hour waiting for the peroxide elixir to work it's magic to no avail. Of course, within five minutes of coming inside, she vomited all over my expensive dining room rug, which I had to throw out. Sweet Belle. Ah. Good thing I love you.
And good thing Howard and his kids love Little Yellow Dogs.
