Bridget walks into the kitchen.  She always hears when I open the pantry door.  She looks at me, her soft brown eyes hopeful.  Her tail moves slowly back and forth.  Not really wagging, just letting me know she’s optimistic. 

          “I don’t have anything for you right now,” I say, reaching to take out cans of black olives, kidney beans, peas, and a box of pasta shells.

          She turns and pads towards the living room.  Her favorite chair, the soft green recliner, is empty.  Making herself comfortable, she closes her eyes.  I’m not worth watching.  Somehow I feel guilty.

          I open the refrigerator and take out ham, celery, carrots, radishes, Miracle Whip, sweet pickle relish, cheese, and onions. As the water begins to boil on the stove, I dump in the pasta shells.  Moving to the cutting board, I chop celery with the feeling that I’m being watched.  Okay, they’re all here.  Bridget, Sony and Tiny are all staring at me.  “How’d you know I was cutting up food?” I ask, turning to face the little beggars.

          They look at me with hopeful eyes.  Tiny has to tilt her head back to look up at me.  Her hair is falling into her eyes.  I feel guilty.  I need to give her a bath and haircut soon.  I always delay grooming her; she’s such a pill.  The other two have adjusted well over the years to the grooming process, but Tiny, the smallest one, is a handful and a half!

          I continue chopping.  A chunk of celery goes flying off the cutting board.  Aah, Tiny is fast!  She is crunching away.  The other two look at her then at me.  “Where’s ours?”  I reach down and give them each a small chunk.  Sony inhales her piece, but Bridget spits hers on the floor.  “I see, you’re not a vegetarian, are you Bridge?”  She stares at me, condemnation in her eyes as Tiny retrieves the celery.  Again, I feel guilty.  I slip her a small slice of ham.

          As the pasta cooks, I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit at the counter.  The morning sun comes through the sliding glass door that opens onto the deck.  All three dogs lie in the warmth of the sunbeams. Sony is the first to move as the heat of the sun becomes too intense for her.  Panting, she slowly shifts to a cooler spot on the carpet.  Bridget, the oldest, stays in the sun longer than her daughters.  I think the warmth helps her arthritis.    The pasta is done.  I drain it, and then cool it with water from the spray attachment.  As I add all the other ingredients, I realize that I have an audience again.  “OK, you moochers, one piece of cheese each.”  They like the cheese much better than the celery.  “Can we have another piece?”  They sit patiently, hoping I will give in.  “I told you one piece.  That’s it for now.”  I shake my finger at them. 

          I mix the dressing and pour it over the mixture in the bowl.  They’re still watching me.  A chipmunk sits on the other side of the glass door stuffing his jaws with sunflower seeds, but the dogs are oblivious.  They follow me to the refrigerator as I put the finished salad in to cool.

          “Okay, who wants to go outside?”  I know it’s a silly question as they all three jump up and down.  “Pick me, pick me!”  I open the door and they charge into the back yard, scattering birds, chipmunks, and squirrels in their mad dash to find just the right spot to do their ‘business’.  Then another quick run back up the steps to come in to get their doggie treat.  They each carry their treasure to a favorite spot to crunch in solitude.  Bridget is on the braided rug by the kitchen counter.  Sony runs to her pillow in my sewing room, and Tiny chooses the crocheted afghan on the living room couch.  I no longer feel guilty.