Over the years I’ve noticed a disturbing trend. Whenever there’s a family celebration — particularly a celebration featuring food — I’m shipped out. Banished behind closed doors. Shut up in my crate. Shuttled over to Luz’s. It happens at Thanksgiving . . . and Passover . . . and July 4 barbecue . . . all the majors. The thinking seems to be “I don’t do
well around food.” If “not doing well around food” means I try to snag and gobble anything I can possibly reach, then yeah, I guess I don’t do well. Last night Beagle Man and the Mrs. were invited to a Super Bowl party at Jeff and Marybeth’s. Now while I may not have actually been to any of these, I’ve watched enough football commercials to know what you’re supposed to do: You drink Bud Light responsibly, and you eat chips & dip and buffalo wings and nachos and chili and pizza and everything else in the world that I’d give my right paw for. Of course I wasn’t brought along. But you know what? I saw this picture of the way B-Man was carrying on at the party, and I’m thinking maybe this time I was better off just hanging with Luz.
The Roof Rack Report (#roofrackreport on Twitter, for those who follow me already on @BeagleManHank) appears on Mondays, usually. It’s about politics, travel, food . . . important stuff like that.