I find this more than a little ironic, since I’ve eaten more grapefruit than any other human who has ever walked this earth. I’m not sure I could prove that to, say, Guinness World Records standards, but I can tell you this: I’ve had a grapefruit with every non-restaurant dinner I’ve eaten from the time I was about five years old. When I was maybe ten I graduated from a half to a whole — and never looked back.
So maybe this is God’s way of smoothing out the relationship between me and my beagle, since he knows if Ricky even thought about snagging my grapefruit the way he’s stolen pretty much every other kind of food I eat, I would absolutely wring his neck.
Tomatoes. There’s another food Ricky won’t touch. This may be a show of solidarity with his brothers — Matt, Greg, and Robby. I happen to love tomatoes in every shape and form. I love them fresh-picked and juicy, straight from the garden. I love the cherry tomatoes that explode like little bombs in your mouth. I love tomatoes and mozzarella — Insalata Caprese. My boys, on the other hand, are grossed out by the very sight of a tomato, and even now, at ages 31, 29, and 19, they carefully hand-pick all the tomatoes out of their salad and place them along the edge of my plate. Maybe that’s where Ricky gets it from.
Oh — and mustard. He doesn’t like mustard. Though if a nice charcoal-grilled Italian sausage with a touch of mustard on it rolled off the serving platter and onto the deck within his reach, I somehow don’t think he’d stand on principle.
R.I.P. I’d like to note the passing and bid a very fond farewell to Brodie, one of my favorite dogs of all time. Brodie was a Golden belonging to our good friends Lang and Marilyn from Boston, and was Ricky’s earliest buddy. (In fact, Ricky featured him in the very first “My Pals” post he ever wrote.) I’m sure Ricky feels bad about the time he visited an already-mature Brodie when he, Ricky, was still a pup, and pestered him endlessly. And I’m sure Brodie has forgiven him. Brodie, you were a good, good dog.
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