Each time I feed the four pups, I have to supervise. Wrennie is apt to startle due to a noise or motion, and the rest swoop in. Atticus eats in a quick devour in another room then waits on the other side of the kitchen gate, Tiny Dog six feet away on the opposite side, growl-noshing. George finishes in seconds in her corner, and Wren dines carefully, slowly, in the middle of the room. I sit in the kitchen chair, drinking tea, monitoring who gets what. The others are very pushy, standing as close as they dare, and Wren is apt to abandon ship. Someone is always hovering, wanting.
Today's breakfast time lapse. Tiny Dog is plump from shivering. Wren hates the new bamboo floor, too skittery-slippery. Her towel is her island.