If you give a dog a lobster

There is a time in every reasonable person’s life when they must put their foot down and refuse to feed a chihuahua a lobster roll.
I was saddled with the chihuahua (for privacy reasons, let us call him Scruffy — aw, who am I kidding? His real name is Chuffy) because I happened to be his neighbor.
But neighborly devotion, whatever it may mean to you, does not extend to lobster rolls.
Chuffy’s owner was taking a business trip to Boston and told me that poor Chuffy — or maybe it was Buffy? — would be inconsolable without him.
“Usually he accompanies me,” said the owner, “but this time I couldn’t find any pet-friendly hotels. How could you, Boston?” he cried, as if he was in the habit of referring to cities in the second person. “I’ll call every day. Let him hear my voice or he’ll pine.”
I thought that was stupid. Then I saw how much the owner would pay me to babysit Fluffy (yes, that was his name). All of a sudden, daily phone calls seemed like a brilliant idea.
So every day, Fluffy’s owner (for the sake of simplicity, I will call the man Duffy) would call, and every day I would jam the chihuahua next to the phone and let the two have a heart-to-heart.
Duffy was checking out all of Boston’s landmarks. He told Fluffy all about the harbor, where the patriots chucked tea, and about the Old North Church, where they didn’t.
I thought he — I’m referring to Gruffy here. Now I’m certain that was the dog’s name — would die of heartbreak. Duffy was having a grand old time sampling seafood in Boston, and the poor chihuahua was stuck in suburban New Jersey with me.
Of course he had to stop eating, the stuck-up, privileged little git. My own dog never has these problems. My dog eats things that aren’t even food.
But Gruffy, bless him, was pining, and he was pining with all his heart, and all his soul, and all his might.
I informed Duffy that if he didn’t come back and get Gruffy — could it have been Snuffy? Yes, I think that was it — he’d find his small dog getting a lot smaller very fast.

Duffy was distraught. “I shouldn’t have mentioned the lobster rolls,” he groaned.
I sympathized, of course, but not really. Still, Duffy needed to stay in Boston for at least another day. And Snuffy had to be fed.
The man proposed a solution. “Give the dog a lobster roll,” he said.
I’m not even in the habit of buying lobster for myself. As gracefully as I could, with a bare minimum of four-letter words, I declined.
“But he’ll suffer!” cried Duffy. No, I said. “But he’ll starve!” cried Duffy. No, I said. “But he’ll keep barking!” cried Duffy.
There is a distinction between spending an inordinate amount of money to feed a dog a lobster roll and spending an inordinate amount of money to get a dog to behave like an angel.
I bought a lobster roll. I saw how fresh it looked. I smelled how delicious it was. And without so much as flinching, I fed it to a chihuahua.
I did not know it was possible for a dog to eat a sandwich larger than itself, but I found that day that nature has no limits.
Duffy arrived a day later and picked up a significantly larger dog. I ended up with a moderately larger bank account.
And I learned that sometimes, even reasonable people must do ridiculous things. Especially when their neighbors travel to cities with great seafood.
How could you, Boston?

Copyright 2025 Alexandra Paskhaver, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.