Peter Jackson was my grandmother's dog. She was standing on the back porch looking in through the screen door. She was a german shepherd-something mix, with german shepherd markings, but shorter ears and a stocky chest. My grandma used to have a handyman named Peter Jackson working on the farm, and when Peter-Jackson-the-dog's mom had puppies, he named them all after himself. Most of the people who adopted Peter Jackson's brothers and sisters changed their names, but not Peter Jackson. She lives out in the barn and she doesn't like being inside, so she looks a little dusty. But right now, she just looked hungry and patient. I looked out the door at her food bowl. It was empty.
"Mom! Peter Jackson's food bowl is empty!"
"Honey, I'm right here. Don't shout. If it's empty, go fill it."
I had never filled Peter Jackson's food bowl before, and I had to think about where the food was kept. Peter Jackson saw me pick up the huge stainless steel bowl, and moved over to stand by a rubbermaid garbage can, with a plastic lid snapped on tight. I popped the lid off and the smell of fried corn hit me in the face.
Peter Jackson ate half the bowl before stopping. She burped and licked her lips, then licked my hand, then sat down and started chewing on her belley to scratch an itch. I put more food in her bowl and made sure to snap the lid back on good and tight.