dishy

Mealtimes are pandemonium, though short-lived, as the food is inhaled in an instant.

The dogs are fed thrice daily: 6am, 2pm and 11pm. You can set a clock by them.

In the morning, I begin to feel the glare and the restless excitement just after five. 'Too early' is the grumpy and sleepy refrain that they get should they begin the harassment campaign earlier than that. And when I do get out of bed, the two of them whip downstairs two steps at a time, make a mad, scrabbling, floor-scratching 90 degree turn at the foot of the stairs, and prance anxiously beside the cupboard until I catch up.

Arwen spins in circles, always clockwise. We use the term 'cavort, cavort', because she looks like a Muppet when she does it. Soleil just stands worshipfully and dribbles.

When I put their bowls down, they gobble the contents with nary a breath, then Arwen immediately flips her bowl over and makes sure that there is no 'dessert' on the bottom: she has a 50-50 chance, because when I pre-soak the food I set one bowl inside the other, and if she gets the top one, there's precious residue to be had.
Soleil, meanwhile, gently picks up her dish and crosses the kitchen and deposits it beside the cupboard containing the dog food bag. We are trying to teach Arwen the 'refill' manouevre, which as with everything else she does, gets executed at a gallop, with gusto.

It's currently 11:30 and the two of them are sacked out on the sofa beside me, snoring contentedly. You'd never imagine that moments ago, it was a feeding frenzy.