We need a therapuetic dog.

In our neighborhood, and I mean right down the street, we had a Chinese restaurant/buffet. Not the greatest food, but cheap and fast, and it killed that hankering you get for Chinese sometimes. Note I said "had". Said Restaurant is no longer there due to numerous health code violations. I guess there are some picky restaurant goers who just cannot abide an owner changing their babies diaper on one of their tables. So the health department came in and said that's it, last time, three strikes, your out!

So we in the neighborhood waited with baited breath, no longer baited with the scent of General Tso's Chicken, for what would fill the now empty spot. And much to our delight, we soon saw a sign for a Mexican restaurant "coming soon". In the culinary opinions of our family, Mexican and Chinese are nearly interchangeable, with Mexican taking a slight lead.

I noted last week that the sign no longer said "Coming Soon" and no read "Open for business". It should have read "Open For Eating" but that's neither here nor there. So with the new signage, we made plans to give them a try. My wife and I went there yesterday with "J", the younger of the two new foster boys. J, you may remember is autistic. J likes to eat, but so far in his career, has not learned the intricacies of knife, fork or spoon, or even a spork for that matter. So, right now anyway, we either feed him and help him learn, or we get finger foods that he can feed himself. Chicken tenders and fries fall into this category. He really loves these things. So much so that he seldom takes the time to eat just one at a time. He'll often pick up handfuls and try to get them into his mouth. The problem is that he has bigger hands than he does a mouth and so most of what's in his hand ends up on the table, in his lap, or on the floor. I figure it's his lap, his germs, so if that's where they land, I'll pick em back up and put them on his plate again. Same for the table, although you don't want to tell my mother that. To her, the table was no different than the floor as far as cleanliness was concerned. But if his food hits the floor, we pretty much leave it alone.

This is where our dogs come in handy. They absolutely love it when J sits, and I use the term loosely, down to eat. They quickly come running and take up station beneath his chair, waiting for the inevitable droppage. We don't argue with them. Pick your battles and all that.

So as we tried out the new Mexican restaurant, he actually did very well. There was almost no food grabbing, except from his own plate, and he sat still most of the time. It was great. But his food wasn't all that great, the tenders being somewhat crispier than they should have been, and he didn't eat a lot of them. I would bet more ended up on the floor than in his mouth. We picked up most of what we could so that we wouldn't get banned from a restaurant again, and paid our check as we walked out. On the way out Sheila commented how a dog would have come in handy to clean up under the table a little better. She says, "Maybe we can claim him as a therapeutic dog."

"I think that only works for blind people," I said.

"Or wheelchair bound people," she said. "Hey, maybe next time we'll get J to wear some dark shades and then folks will think he's blind."

"Maybe," I said. "But I doubt they'd ever believe a 9 pound Rat Terrier would make it as a seeing eye dog."

"Maybe you're right," she said. "But it couldn't hurt to try, right?"

"It never hurts to try. Unless you're a stunt man."