Yogi is a chef

Let me tell you about my sister’s dog, Yogi Bear.

Pets always end up with two names. Their real name and the name you call them day-to-day. Yogi is Bez.

The thought pattern went something like this: Yogi – Yogi Bear – Hogi –Hogan – Hogan berry – Bez… mind you, I think if you were to ask anyone else they would all have a slightly altered succession on this.

Dad found Yogi, scrawny and abandoned, eating dead frogs on the side of a highway. He called Mum and told her he’d found some small breed of dog and could he bring him home?

LIFE LESSON NUMBER 1625: Immediate suspicions should always be used in any situation where emphasis is put on size without any goading, but for some reason Mum agreed and Dad returned home with a Great Dane puppy. You don’t need to be any sort of dog expert to know that even as a baby Great Danes are massive. That’s how we met Yogi.

Once when he was just a wee baby I lay on him, like a wonderful furry pillow and he snarled at me. I spent a long time thinking he was a real jerk after that. He later explained to me that he has been startled and had not yet learned how to control his intrinsic responses, though still didn’t apologies.

These days Yogi has his hands full looking after Gypsey (our Bull Terrier) in her twilight years. Her gambling addictions have only become worse as her senility has set in. These addictions have been fortified by Pink Floyd (my jerk cat) who still wears a fedora and blames his long list of questionable endeavors on the fact he is permanently disturbed by a psychic predisposition to see ghosts. I don’t think this is any kind of excuse because Allison Dubois seems like a really nice and well-adjusted person, apart from those few unfortunate cameos on the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

To compensate for his increasing responsibility around the house, Yogi has started to pursue his long-held passion for cooking.

When he was just a puppy he would weave in and out of our legs in the kitchen in a frenzy, forgetting his size and barking unabated filaments for alternative uses for cilantro and such, until Mum would scream out, “TOO MANY COOKS!!!!” and he would curl up sadly in front of the sink – his eyes still making loud suggestions to anyone who had the time to squat down and pay attention.

Now with both my sister and I living away from home and Mum and Dad at work all day, Yogi has the kitchen all to himself and he uses it with gusto – prepping the most insanely, extravagant meals for Gypsey who mostly can’t remember her own name let alone recognize the magnitude of the feasts she is being presented day after day. That’s okay though, because Yogi doesn’t do it for the accolades. It’s a labor of love.

He’s a good boy.

About Hol Roy (53 Articles)
Feminsit pop culture addict, writing about feminist pop culture.

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