On Food, Time, and Other Things Humans Get Wrong

My name is Dave. I am a dog, which means I understand the universe far better than humans do.

This is not arrogance. This is observation.

Let’s take food, for example.

Humans think food is something that happens at “mealtimes.” They put it in bowls, look at clocks, and say unhinged things like, “You just ate,” or “Dinner isn’t for another hour.” This is adorable, but incorrect. Food is not an event. Food is a state of being. It is a constant, like gravity, or the urge to bark at absolutely nothing at 2:17 a.m.

Food exists at all times. You simply have to be alert.

Sara understands this.

Sara is the other dog in this pack. Her name is Sara, but pronounced SAAAAA-RAAAA, long and drawn out, the way humans say a name when someone has stepped outside the rules. It is not affectionate. It is corrective. It is the sound of patience thinning. Sara has earned this pronunciation. Sara loves food. Not “likes.” Not “enjoys.” Loves—in the way poets write about love, in the way the ocean kisses the moon nearly every night and never gets tired of it.

Everything Sara knows can be traced back to food. The couch? Crumb storage. The yard? Forgotten snacks. The car? A rolling buffet of mystery smells and hope. Our humans are tall, clumsy food dispensers with anxiety, and Sara believes deeply in their potential to improve.

Humans don’t see this.

Humans also don’t see the invisible map.

The house is covered in it—a detailed, layered, and emotionally significant topographical chart of spills, drops, and historical eating events. There’s the Kitchen Tile of Great Spaghetti Night (2019), still rich with memory. The Sofa Cushion of Popcorn Betrayal, where so much was promised and so little delivered. The Mysterious Corner Where Something Once Fell and Might Again, which must be checked daily.

Humans clean. This is very funny to us. They believe the cleaning “removes” smells. What it actually does is remix them, like a DJ nobody asked for. Citrus, soap, old sadness, and chicken, all blended into one confusing lie. I can still smell the chicken nugget that lived under the fridge three years ago. It had a life. A story. It had dreams.

Sara stops there every day to pay her respects.

Humans also don’t notice time the way we do.

They say things like, “We’ll eat soon.” Soon is meaningless. Soon could be ten minutes. Ten minutes is a full emotional era. In that time, Sara experiences at least four moods: Hope, Vigilance, Despair, and Strategic Positioning Near the Counter. Sometimes there is a fifth mood, Anger, but that one is quiet and involves staring at the cabinet where the treats live.

I observe all of this calmly, because I am wise. I lie on the floor and pretend not to care. This is called playing the long game, which humans also do not understand. Sara begs. She pleads. She sits. She stands. She sits again, just in case that one was wrong. The humans make eye contact with her and that’s it. She has compromised the operation.

I, on the other hand, simply exist near them with my face arranged into polite tragedy. I do not stare. I do not whine. I project disappointment, patience, and the suggestion of history. Eventually, food comes to me. This is not luck. This is strategy.

Sara has no such restraint.

Sara watches humans chew. Humans think this is cute. It is not. It is surveillance. Sara’s eyes say, “You are bad at eating. I could fix this. I would fix this faster. I would fix this with joy.”

Another thing humans don’t see: the signals.

A bag crinkle is not just a sound. It is a prophecy. A fridge opening is an announcement. A plate scraping is a symphony’s climax. A fork paused midair is suspense. Humans say, “It’s just a salad.” Wrong. A salad is food wearing a disguise. Underestimate nothing.

There is one food that requires special mention.

Peanut butter is not food.

Peanut butter is an experience.

Peanut butter does not arrive casually. It announces itself quietly, with a lid twist that sounds like destiny. The moment the jar opens, the house changes temperature. The air thickens. Gravity becomes optional.

Sara knows before I do.

Her head lifts slowly, as if pulled by an invisible string. Her ears tilt toward the kitchen. Her body remains still, but her soul has already left the room and is sprinting.

I follow more carefully. Peanut butter rewards patience.

Humans think peanut butter is for sandwiches, or apples, or “just a spoon.” This is incorrect. Peanut butter is for dogs. Humans are merely the delivery system. They scoop it out slowly, tragically unaware that every second matters.

Sara cannot contain herself.

She sits. She stands. She spins once, accidentally. Her entire back end vibrates like a faulty appliance. Her eyes lock onto the spoon. She is no longer begging. She is praying.

The humans laugh. This is dangerous. Laughter only delays peanut butter.

I take a different approach. I sit perfectly still. I do not blink. I make my face very small and very serious. I radiate trust. I suggest responsibility. I imply that I will not panic, even though I absolutely will.

Eventually, the spoon comes down.

Time stops.

Peanut butter sticks to the roof of your mouth, which is proof that it loves you and does not want to leave. Humans apologize when this happens. We forgive them immediately.

Sara attacks the spoon with urgency and enthusiasm. There is no elegance. There is only commitment. I wait my turn, because I am mature and also because the humans always give me a bigger scoop when I wait.

This is justice.

Afterward, Sara smacks her mouth loudly and stares into the distance. Peanut butter has taken her somewhere. She will not speak of where.

I lick my lips carefully, methodically, storing the flavor for later. Peanut butter is a memory food. You carry it with you.

The humans wipe the spoon and put the jar away, believing the moment has ended.

It has not.

We patrol the floor. We check the cabinet. We sniff the air for residue. Peanut butter leaves echoes.

I once saw Sara identify a snack through three walls, a closed door, and a lie. She did not hesitate. She did not doubt. She moved with purpose.

Humans lie constantly.

“We’re not eating right now.”

“That’s not for dogs.”

“You won’t like it.”

Sara would like dirt if you put butter on it.

Humans also don’t understand fairness.

If one human eats, all dogs should eat. If one dog eats, the other dog should also eat—just because Sara saw it, and that mattered to her. I should be able to eat my food without her assistance, commentary, or supervision. When we show the whites of our eyes, humans call this “begging.” We call it accounting.

At night, after dinner (which should happen again, by the way), Sara and I lie on the floor. Humans think we are sleeping. We are not. We are listening. Waiting. Remembering where crumbs once lived and where they might return.

They miss the way the house hums after a meal.

They miss the secret language of smells, still warm in the air.

They miss how joy can be small and accidental—a single rogue Cheerio under the table, discovered by chance, like a quiet promise that the world has not run out of kindness.

I watch the humans scroll glowing rectangles and worry about tomorrow and money and all the heavy things humans carry in their heads. They sigh. They pace. They forget to eat. They forget they are allowed to rest.

Still, they always remember to feed us.

Except once.

Once, the bowls were late.

Not late in the normal way --where “soon” stretches and bends and Sara enters Strategic Positioning early. This was different. The sun moved. The light changed. The house stayed quiet.

The humans sat on the couch without eating. One of them stared at the wall. The other rubbed their face with both hands and did not look up when Sara sat perfectly, correctly, in front of them.

We waited.

Eventually, the bowls appeared. They always do.

But Sara ate faster than usual that night.

I did not ask why.

Sara snores softly, dreaming of sandwiches—stacked too high, falling over, perfect.

I keep watch.

And as long as bowls keep appearing, I know we’re going to be okay.