The Scolding: Quinn the bad boy
Now, I don’t use this term very lightly. Pet scientists have testified to the ‘bad boy’ word as the ultimate negative reinforcement, and as much as we believe that dogs aren’t able to understand us, those words have been proven to hold as much hate and anger as an ‘I hate you’ phrase. Not good. […]
Now, I don’t use this term very lightly. Pet scientists have testified to the ‘bad boy’ word as the ultimate negative reinforcement, and as much as we believe that dogs aren’t able to understand us, those words have been proven to hold as much hate and anger as an ‘I hate you’ phrase. Not good.
Still, I couldn’t help myself when those words spilled out of my mouth yesterday afternoon. I remember ranting and raving about how ‘bad of a boy’ Quinn was to negative space, as Quinn bounded atop the plush family couch and retreated to his ‘I’m sorry’ position.
See, this is what happened:
I’ve been crazy busy juggling both school and work, and having a tidal wave of exams awaiting me as if I were in an orange jumpsuit awaiting the noose doesn’t help calm the nerves one bit (surprise surprise). Chinese herbs, medicines and grossly saccharine herbal soups to aid insomniacs like myself weren’t at all useful, and it was starting to affect my sleeping habits. I fell pray to the evil flu more than thrice over the course of a month, and those painful sinuses disallowed me from bending over and playing with Quinn as and when I wanted to.
I blame myeslf for the chain-reaction course of events that followed, and worst of all, Quinn took the brunt of it.
I was tired of eating like Ghandi whilst recovering. To cheer me up from a two-week long stint of nothing but plain rice, veggies and unsalted fish, mom returned home from work one early afternoon and presented me with this:
I was overjoyed, and left the steaming bun on the dining table top to cool down. I think we all can guess what happens next.
Post-fever diminishing shower and ready to engulf my pao, I sauntered back to the living room, only to find Quinn gnawing on the left-over chicken bits, hardened bits of egg yolk strewn over the floor and my king pao ripped apart beyond recognition. I felt the anger course through my body, every feverish fibre was on red alert; On the brink of tears – That’s how seriously I prioritise my food – I bellowed: “YOU BAD BOY HOW DARE YOU DESTROY MY PAO… yada yada yada..”
(Note: This pao-destruction happened post-lunch, when Quinn had a bursting belly of brown rice and chicken breast. In other words: This crime was committed out of pure greed.)
Quinn assumed the “I’m sorry” position, and I proceeded to mop up the mess with a wet cloth.
Naturally, we’ve since made up, with Quinn back to his usual annoying self, accompanying me through the long nights of hacking away at my laptop and making fervent snoring noises. How on earth he managed to jump atop the waist-high dining table, I still have no clue. But hey, annoyance finds a way.
Nevertheless, I’ve learnt my lesson. Nowadays, I fiercely guard my food – It’s in the fridge, or in my mouth. Nothing sits innocently atop dining tables waiting to be devoured (read: stolen), and Quinn sticks to his 3 daily meals and the occasional treat – All is well.
Updated: May 16, 2017.