F. Daniel Rzicznek’s books include Divination Machine (Parlor Press, 2009) and Neck of the World (Utah State University Press, 2007) He is also coeditor of The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Prose Poetry: Contemporary Poets in Discussion and Practice, forthcoming in 2010. He currently teaches at Bowling Green State University.
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Beyond his natural canine (specifically: Labrador) inquisitiveness, I believe my dog Bleu’s daily ration of California Natural Lamb & Rice (“large bite” size) has led him into a career of experimental gastronomy. He’ll try anything once, and sometimes twice. A partial list of his forays so far: feathers, cake, anything plastic (spent shotgun shells, grocery bags, lighters, toy monkeys), piles of dust, fatty beef, old leaves, live ants, ground lamb, wool socks, raw chicken juice, chocolate, Newcastle Brown Ale, cattails, rabbit shit, fried eggs, snow, spilled soup, red long underwear, lollipop sticks, week-old french fries from the side of the road, scotch, goose blood, grass, fish (both live and prepared), ice cubes, rubber balls, lean beef, corpses of fledgling robins, medium-sized tree limbs, carrots, bedding, string, frozen green beans, pine needles, cheese, bread, toilet paper, ground venison, toast, milk, rain falling through a car window, plain pasta, plain rice, bacon, garlic, onion, loose leaf black tea, loose leaf green tea, candy wrappers, knitted slippers, musty catfish skeletons, towels, grocery lists, ladybugs, salt, wooden chairs, deer bones, Beaujolais-Villages, winter gloves, pork shoulder, detachable ice cleats, lightning bugs. Bleu is a reckless fool to be sure, as we all know dogs are allergic to chocolate by varying degrees, and I’ve read that both garlic and onion, when consumed on a regular basis, can attack a dog’s red blood cells, sometimes to the point of death. It goes without saying that a starter of dead baby robin followed with a main course of slippers does not a nutritionally (or spiritually) rewarding meal make. Like the adventurous gourmand who seeks out the Japanese blowfish that is said to kill a handful of the several thousand who dine upon it annually, Bleu’s fear of death is either non-existent (proving his gentleness of mind) or repressed (revealing a perhaps troubled psychological profile). The only logical explanation for his behavior is a mundane diet. This is why my wife and I give him bits of everything we eat in hopes of bringing some sense to his eccentric palate and to promote old-fashioned democratic generosity around the house. This, despite our intentions, has resulted in begging. On a bold day, Bleu will even attempt to lick our plates as we eat, or worse, he’ll heave his front paws onto the counter and snatch up whatever morsels of bread, raw meat or vegetables he can manage. More regular is the practice my wife has coined “counter sharking” wherein Bleu walks with his nose sniffing along the kitchen counter’s edge, drawn like a fuzzy black shark by the sounds and smells of cookery. Sharpen a knife, open a bag of carrots, grind some peppercorns, unwrap a block of cheese and he will appear at your side. Like any sane dog, he likes to eat.