The morning review

It's too early in the morning. I'm not interested in doggie kisses or the unwavering devotion of a young canine. It's 5:30 a.m.
Bleary-eyed I grab the cat food. Have to feed the cat first, Root Beer has to know her place in our little country. Bel is the queen of the early morning and we are just her lowly servants who move far too slowly for the young feline. Bel is always hungry in the morning.
Since Root Beer's arrival, Bel's attitude has worsened. Before, I was always able to make my morning ablutions without penalty. Now, if I don't move fast enough, Bel makes me pay. She'll ignore me far into the afternoon if her bowl of Science Diet chicken entree and Royal Canin dry food aren't placed directly before her the moment I wake up. She's not as fussy about the water. She'll jump on the sink when I finally make it to the bathroom. Her royal-ness will graciously allow me to turn on the tap, where she will gingerly lean forward to sip from the running spring.
Someday I may be responsible for the planet's water shortage. Sometimes I forget to turn off the tap.
Root Beer's gregarious personality is similar to Bel's in one respect. It does not include patience. She rockets through the house when I am feeding Bel. She screeches to a halt beside me as I wander to the kitchen counter where we keep her food. Originally when we brought our all-natural puppy food home, we left it on the counter, open. However, like Odi and Garfield, I think Root Beer has a found a confederate in Bel. "Somehow" Root Beer's dry food was landing on the floor. Root Beer exhibited a certain penchant for hanging about in the kitchen when Bel was cruising the counters. Now the lid screws on and Root Beer hasn't found any more bonus meals.
I feed the puppy. She butts her head against my leg, lunging for her dish. As soon as my back is turned, Root Beer's snout is deep within the dish. She eats. She stops. She pleads with me. So far, I have resisted the temptation to introduce new entrees for her selection. I do not know how much longer I can hold out. After a few seconds of this novel game, Root Beer decides that her dog dish is filled with ambrosia and sweet delight, she gulps the remaining portion in a nano-second.
Her love of eating is equal to her tendency to chew, both are unmistakable. She's a cliche. My slippers, bathrobe ties, old pop bottles, socks, underwear and an $80 blouse, they're all between her paws. They're all gnawed on.
Two days ago, in a moment of weakness, I gave Root Beer a now favoured treat. I gave her a piece of frozen broccoli. I felt so bad. Her teething gums were obviously frustrating her and she needed the numbing effect of the icy-cold vegetables. She's had about 10 spears.
This morning, I regretted the impulse.
When I opened the front door, she raced to her special "section" of the front yard. I followed close behind. She peed. We celebrated. Then she pooped. The green stream racing from her butt too closely resembled the bag of vegetables hidden in the upstairs freezer. I tried to scoop up the colourful waste but couldn't. The frozen tundra of my front yard now has a green patch growing.
I'm worried about the beige carpet inside. If the urge strikes Root Beer and my son isn't quick enough to get her outside today, the spots which appear won't be nearly as colourful as the waterfall of words Dave will release.