Ava, Scarlett, and BARF

The magnificent Izzy, my friend and financial shepherd, called last week to ask in an anxious tone if I could see my way to doing him a favor. Since Izzy has pulled my irons out of the fire on a continuous basis since 1998, in one way or another, the answer to this is always yes if at all possible.

Izzy has two Golden Retrievers named Ava and Scarlett (he likes classic movies). You can only tell them apart by the color of their collars; their sophisticated and glamorous names notwithstanding, they are, after all, Golden Retrievers. That is, they munch each other’s heads, galumph about the house like young Shetland ponies, and generally behave like big brainless louts who can’t decide if they are pack predators or preschoolers. They scare the living crap out of me. Izzy worships them. If I did not adore Izzy and Inger as much as I do I would still be running from the last encounter I had with them, discussing my retirement fund white-knuckled in Izzy’s kitchen.

What Izzy needed was freezer space, because he will not allow Ava and Scarlett to eat commercial dog food with its potential taint of chemicals or processing, and weekly concocts for them a homemade variant on the BARF diet.

Strangely enough, I have freezer space, because my Albino Ex, in the paroxysm of guilt that accompanied his decision to kick me to the curb, gave me not only four new tires but a refrigerator, three years old at the time but slated for replacement because he was venturing out on a Brave New Bachelor World and was having his whole condo expensively overhauled. It didn’t fit in my dinky kitchen so I just decided to have a second fridge in the cellar. The freezer section is mostly occupied by a colossal overstock of cold therapy gel packs.

Today Izzy pulled up in my driveway, the hatch of his Subaru laden with cargo retrieved from the nearest Wegman’s, where his inside man had warned him of several cases of frozen stock from Thanksgiving destined to be either pulled or sold. I, a vegetarian, now have seven kosher turkeys in my freezer, because kosher meat is guaranteed crap free, and Izzy, a man who observes the Law and davens devoutly, sees no reason why his dogs should eat treyf.

Only for him would I do this. I swear.

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5 thoughts on “Ava, Scarlett, and BARF

  1. Personally, I’d put up with quite a lot for a freezer and some tires. Your tale of woe brought back terrible memories of trying to feed my cat girls on a raw diet…it didn’t go so well. High-quality commercial food seems to work a lot better…and by high-quality, I mean I could eat it myself in the event of an economic collapse. I probably wouldn’t, but theoretically, I could.

    • I think it works better for dogs; anyway, I don’t think I could handle all those poultry carcasses. I buy the same class of cat food, and even then I get picky complaints about the service and presentation.

      I earned those tires. Five years sleeping three or four nights a week int he same room with a scanner tuned to the emergency channels. The reception was so good you could hear the barfing, presumably not of a raw diet, every time they ran a call to the local bar most notorious for overserving.

      He was and is a really decent guy, actually, just kinda not boyfriend material.

    • Izzy has you covered there, dude. The wealthy man in the raggedy jeans, Henley shirt and grungy fisherman’s hat lobbies both the Wegman’s, where the kosher turkeys come from, and the local supermarket down the street, to set aside sound food they would otherwise discard. These he transports personally to the nearby food bank every week. I think we can spot him some kosher turkeys; he pays the sale price for those. The dogs have to eat something.

      He gives away his old cars, too. I don’t mean to charity for a tax break, I mean he just finds a regular person who needs a driveable car and can’t afford one.

      They still make them like Izzy, clearly, but not too often.

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