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The Mashed Potato King

Like babies, puppies, and vacuum cleaners, you just never know what a certain feathery someone might decide to ingest.

Once my parents’ dachsund, JP Morgan (like the bluegrass song not the bank), decided to consume an entire box of his emergency medicine. Caps, containers, instructions and all.

He not only survived, but appears to be thriving.

Pearl will nibble on just about anything that isn’t nailed down and looks shreddable. If he were a human child, he’d be the kind who likes to mix all his food up into a big pile, jump in it, scatter it around, and then hunt it down like a (um) hawk stalking its prey.

So I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised the other night to turn away from my dinner plate for a moment, turn back, and see this:

The mashed potato king dining at Mommy’s plate.

Which quickly dwindled to this:

The beak build-up is Pearl’s favorite part. When he is full, he usually has one-quarter to one-half inch of whatever it is piled up on top of his beak. He then puffs up, crest flared, and goes into a vigorous shake.

When he is done, her beak is clean. And everything else is…..not.

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