There is something a little freaky about Trevor. Everywhere you take him in New York he is showered with treats. Now, this is not an exclusive thang. People take their dogs everywhere in New York and so shopkeepers have learned a little treat in their mouths tends to open our wallets. So far, no surprise.
But Trevor, the Trev-miister, Trev-e-atta, doesn't like treats. He takes them, very politly. And then spits them right back out. At home he won't steal your food from the table (although he will slink to the table quietly and steal your paper napkin so as to shred it to bits).
At home he will get a liva-snap and suck on it, spitit out, hide it, suck on it some more and finally - when it is a lifeless, tasteless white charcoal lump - spit it out for us to throw away.
He eats, mind you, just not treats. He eats his expensive ass dog food and is done.
EXCEPT where we live now. We are at the cross roads of Times Square (drinking for tourists) and Hell's Kitchen (drinking for hipsters). After they drink, they get a slice of pizza or a bagel before heading home. Then they leave the crust or half the bagel on the street. On the street where people step on it, grind it into the ground and the homeless people shun it. This, for Big Trev, is the real taste of New York. He will pull and pull to try and get the tender piece of crap from next to the trash can (where the trashed Bridge and Tunnel Boy missed) so as to eat it's tender goodness on our walk. Strangers stare and point at Ed and I like we never feed the poor thing.
Then he comes home, splashes water out of the toilet goes back to bed and burps at us before settling in at the foot of the bed while we get ready for work.
Now who's the dummy.