. . . always makes me think of Jorg. He was our beloved dachshund. He could hear me slicing carrots with a quiet paring knife if I was in the kitchen, 2 rooms away from where he was sleeping in a sunspot. It happened every time.
Could be that I made other telltale sounds that alerted him. Getting out the stockpot, maybe. Opening the fridge door. Rustling the plastic bag holding the carrots. But I did all of those things other times and it never roused him.
Okay, we all think we have the smartest kids and the smartest dogs. Jorg showed up because he knew that I routinely—and accidently—popped carrot slices onto the floor when I was slicing the big daddys. So he walked back and forth over my feet, waiting and hoping. It got to be a lovely routine, him and me together.