Have a hot dog. Just not that one.

One of Jennie’s favorite stories about my family is the hot dog story. Here’s some background: My father loves hot dogs. He has one every day for lunch. It’s, like, the best food in the world to him, somehow. I don’t eat hot dogs very much. Probably just a handful of times a year. Anyway, one day, when I was at my parent’s house, I got a hankering for a hot dog.
I went to the fridge, and yes, it was like the Promised Land of pork products: every kind of hot dog you can imagine. I just grabbed the first one I saw, and threw it in the microwave. When it was cooked, I took it out and looked at it. I showed it to my dad. “Is this cooked enough?” I asked him. Keen eye for hot dogs that he has, he noticed a problem right away. Here’s the conversation that followed.
Dad: That’s not the right hot dog.
Me: Huh?
Dad: That’s the wrong hot dog.
Me: What are you talking about?
Dad: That’s not for you. That’s for the dog. Those are not the hot dogs we buy for people!

A few things you need to know.
1. My parents don’t have a dog.
2. But they have hot dogs for “the dog”.
3. I am not allowed to eat those hot dogs. (And, according to my father, I wouldn’t want to eat those hot dogs – they’re the cheap kind. I need the Ball Park hot dogs – the ones for the humans).
I’m pretty sure that they’re talking about my sister’s dog when they say “That’s for the dog”, but … Roxi isn’t allowed in their house, so I can’t be sure. Either way, there are special hot dogs in my parents’ house for a dog they don’t have. And, please, don’t try to eat them. They’re for the dog!