In our house, Sunday morning is often bacon rind morning. It's worth getting up early to secure a prime position under the most likely family member's chair. Some of our fondest memories are of sitting just below the breakfast table with our mouths at the ready for little morsels of bacon or ham that may drop at any moment.
Bacon is possibly the most exquisite delicacy known to dogkind. The overwhelming salt on the palate, complimented by that tang of smoke. Pig grease, making the edges crisp, sometimes even curled in the heat of cooking. There is nothing like the spattle of grease in the kitchen, it gets into your open nose, and we have to lick each other's faces, to savour the essential oils that are coating our fur.
Rubbed in a little egg yolk, bacon takes on a whole new character. When dropped by the generous children at the table above us, sometimes, even with hints of buttered toast, our palates are almost overwhelmed. From the floor, mixed with last night's dinner and some sand, nom, nom, nom.
We have found it worth licking at the floor for some time to gather up the last particles of taste and the senses are tantalised by the added texture small pieces of cut up paper or dried grass after the lawn has been mowed. These subtle flavours build up during the week after the floor has been vacuumed on Wednesday, and reach a crescendo by Sunday morning. After this, sadly, they often fade. It may have something to do with our tongue work, a thoroughly licked floor loses its bouquet.
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