Alf and I went to the organic food market to find sun dried tomatoes without preservatives. We found them high on the last shelf. You needed to be a giraffe to spot them. Imported from Italy, of course. Why can’t Americans do this? Meanwhile, there were plenty of other brands on lower shelves within easy reach. Those were floating in olive oil and chemicals.
“That reminds me of a story when I was a child,” the clerk at the check-out said as he bagged our purchase. “Our Pekinese had a fascination with the tomatoes my mother grew in the back yard. Every summer one by one he’d pluck off a ripe tomato and deposit it in the back yard. He did this until all the tomatoes were off the vines. My mother found them shriveled up in the sun, and that’s how we made our own sun dried tomatoes.”
“Hey, you know, that’s not a bad idea,” Alf said when we climbed into the car. “Can we train Calvin to do that?”
“It’s got to be his idea.”
“We could make it his idea,” Alf said as we pulled out of the parking space.
“How do we do that?”
“We spray the tomato plants with some irresistible odor that will drive him wild and he’ll attack the tomatoes.”
“Calvin doesn’t have a dainty mouth like a Peek. He’d snatch and smash,” I said.
“I could train him to have a gentle bite,” Alf said.
“His jaws would crush everything. You’d have spaghetti sauce instead.”
“Hmm. We do have basil and oregano growing…”