Apr 24, 2026 4 min read

The boxes arrive every few days, placed against the front door by the delivery person who then snaps a photo to prove it came. Some of the boxes are heavy enough that I open and download a bit before dragging the rest inside.

Felipe stands there as I open them, poking his wiry gray nose toward my hands as I pull off the packing tape. Inside are the proof of my effort to appease him.

And feed him.

Felipe the mini schnauzer has become a picky eater in his old age. As his keeper, my life has become a project — an odyssey — to find the next food he will eat.

When I adopted him last November, his foster family sent me home with a small bag of the dry food he’d been eating. When that was depleted, I ordered 50 pounds worth. Twice a day I’d dip into the big, plastic bin and scoop out enough to fill a small plate.

That worked until it didn’t.

“He doesn’t have many teeth,” said my daughter-in-law the veterinary tech. “Soak it in warm water to soften it up.”

This created a mushy gray blob that was, frankly, disgusting. But ol’ Fippy did eat it. Until he didn’t, and who could blame him.

Next, I bought one of those big logs of soft food sold in those special dog food refrigerators at the grocery store. It looked and smelled like braunschweiger sausage, yuck, but I’d slice off a round and smash it up and he’d eat it.

Until he didn’t.

I was on to him. This little old man knew that if he didn’t like or had grown tired of what was on his dinner plate, he need only turn up his nose, and the next day there would be something else.

Each cycle lasted about four days. Days one through four he would gobble the meal; the next morning I’d lovingly prepare and place the food on his spot on the kitchen floor, call him to come and eat and then step back to watch as he’d wanly sniff the plate, look up at me, and then turn and walk away with a petulant swagger.

“He’s a dog,” said my son. “He won’t starve to death.”

But I’m not sure he’s right about that. When I tried the tough love approach, the standoff lasted a day-and-a-half. I finally went through the McDonald’s drive-thru and bought him a chicken sandwich, which he inhaled along with four French fries.

I realize that a 14-year-old dog will have a declining appetite. But this is less a case of not feeling like eating and more a case of the dog indulging his dabbling tendencies.

The delivered boxes are from an online pet supply company. I’ve been going on the site and ordering samples of every type of dog food and treat that pops up on my screen. This week’s delivery included little single-serving bowls of beef stew and tuna casserole. His favorite so far is the chicken vegetable stew; he gobbled all but the peas, which he managed to isolate and nose off the plate onto the floor. My little kids used to do that to the broccoli I served them in their highchairs.

What we have here is a fuzzy, nonagenarian toddler. I’m hoping that he’ll forget the food that he’s rejected and will think it’s something new when I bring it back around again. For now, my cupboard is filled with possibilities; when I open it to select my next offering, Felipe stands there and watches. Daring me to get it right.