Dog’s aren’t supposed to eat chocolate; we know that.  Try telling that to Buddy.

As we were leaving the house to run errands, Buddy jumped into the car with glee.  Ever on the prowl,  he promptly stuck his nose in my purse, right in front of me, and jumped to the back seat of the car with a look on his face that said “Ha, ha, catch me if you can.”  I tried.  The song “who let the dog’s out?” came to my mind as I dived in after him.

Over the back seat I climbed, trying to capture his little nose and pry the Butterfinger from his jaws, that he had so expertly stolen from my purse. 

I moved in one direction, he moved in another.  “Grrrr!” He knew to keep that little sound gentle.    “Grrrr!”  I said back, in the form of “Drop it, out, Buddy, spit it out.”  He knows what spit it out means and normally complies.  We were driven to hysterical laughter the first time I said a few years ago.  As if he had known all along what the words meant, at that time he worked the forbidden object quickly out of his mouth as if to say, “Oops, well here, I didn’t like it anyway.” 

However, now, he was deaf, determined, and defiant.  “Butterfingers are not to be spit out,” he thought.  “Ain’t no way, Ma, this is mine!”  

I stopped, he stopped.  He didn’t dare eat it, but he wasn’t let it go either.  He looked at me, I looked at him.  “Buddy,”  I explained gently.  “I’m the boss.  I’m the ‘decider,’ you know, like the President.  You can’t have it, spit     it       out!” 

“Forget you, Grrrr!”  Buddy replied. 

My husband said, “You know, you could just swat him and be done with it.”  Then he paused at my look.  “Yeah,  what was  I thinking.  You didn’t swat the kids, much less the dog.” 

“He’s smart, he’ll spit it out.”  I said with confidence. 

“He’s smart, he’ll hold onto it ’til it melts.”  Lynn replied. 

“Oh.”  I looked at Buddy with a firm gaze that was intendee to remind him of who was in charge.  Strangely enough, Buddy looked back at me with the same glance. 

Finally, I nudged Buddy’s butt.  Faking authority, I sternly tjhreatened him like I used to do with my boys,  “Do you want Mommy to spank you?”  Yeah, you guessed it, it didn’t work with Buddy either. 

Sighing I looked at my husband, who was trying not to laugh, for fear of making Buddy feel totally in charge.  Well, I could give up, like I sometimes did with the kids, ok most of the time; or, I could dive in for the gold, ignoring the snurl on Buddy’s face.  That cute little face, with a lock-jaw hold on a Butterfinger. 

“That’s my candy!”  I said and finally stuck my fingers in his mouth while saying  “Don’t you dare bite your mother!” 

He didn’t, but having seen that look on my kid’s faces for 18 years, I knew he wanted to.

Taking candy from a baby, is not easy, no matter the babe.  I won…but Buddy would have nothing to do with me for hours.  The little snot.

-Buddy’s Mom