It's just before spouse gets home. I am slipping in a last game of scrabble before he gets here. The dog is stuck to me, reminding me of her dinnertime. As long as I pet her, she stays calm, but if I stop she begins to harumph every 10 seconds or so, each harumph imbued with crescendoing whimpering until I either pet her some more or feed her. It's a ritual often played out between us two. So I finish the game and go to the kitchen to prepare Sara's dinner. She tries to jump and I tell her not to and she does it anyway even though half the time her back legs crumble beneath her. First, put a couple small scoops of dry into the bowl, go get the open can of wet food (liver flavor!) in the fridge and scoop some into the bowl. Add a little water and stir it up with a fork. Top with aspirin and glucosamine. There is a pesky piece of food that won't quit the fork. Spouse calls. Do I need anything at the store? I keep banging the fork onto the bowl but it won't budge. So I scrape it off with my finger. "As a matter of fact, we're out of vodka. Do you want a martini when you get home?"
And then I licked my finger. Whole finger in mouth, dog food residue scraped onto back of teeth. (Doing two things at once is a challenge for me apparently.)
And you know what? It really wasn't that horrific. Kind of like bland liverwurst. Good to know that if times get dire, I can always crack open a can of Pedigree.
Still, I cannot believe I did that.