The Donut of My Vacation

Written 10 June, 2008

The Donut of My Vacation

I'm back home after three weeks of bliss, and I'm happy to say I returned ten pounds lighter than I left. That's due to a lot of walking and judicious eating. Fruits, nuts, low-glycemic carbs, and no donuts.

Well, there were a FEW donuts.

Just down the street from the house in which Sweetie and I were holing up was a produce stand with a country bakery. I would walk the kilometer there most mornings and buy tomatoes, cucumbers, leeks, onions, carrots, mushrooms, broccoli, asparagus, and other fruits de terre.

On the other side of the door was a bakery filled with wondrous things: thick loaves of rye and multigrain bread, baguettes with glistening crusts, cookies of all variety, brownies with chocolate icing and M&M sprinkles as a bonus treat, apple and blueberry and cherry turnovers, coconut cream and apple and peach and cherry and pecan pies in 6", 10", and personal treat sizes, nutty rugelach, scones, cream puffs, cheese straws, and other miracles of pastry science.

And donuts. 3.5"-wide, 1.5"-thick apple cider donuts, plain cake donuts, and beautiful brown donuts rolled in sugar crystals.

It was the last of these I favored.

I told Sweetie I deserved a vacation donut. She didn't discourage me, for I was up every morning, walking, while she slept the sleep of the innocent.

Well, that may be stretching the point. While she slept.

So there came the day when I bought it. My donut. Sixty-nine cents worth of nutmeg-and-cinnamon flavored deep-fried sugary sweetness. The smell was heavenly.

The donut weighed heavily in my hand as I sat on a bench and began to stuff the day's vegetables into my backpack.

Now, I've heard of German shepherds, and Belgian shepherds, and even Dutch and Australian shepherds-- fine dogs all, I'm sure. But who ever heard of a Uzbekistani shepherd?

Not I, certainly, but there one was, a four-month-old black-and-white puppy with a gleam in his eye and mischief on his mind, the guardian of the vegetables, I supposed. He nosed his way through the screen door and came outside and sat on his haunches. I could tell by his manner he fancied my donut, but he was not going to get it. Well, maybe I would give him a piece of it.

But I was robbed of any chance to be generous, for that 75-pound puppy made the first move. In complete indifference to the height of the donut (I was holding it above my head), he climbed right up me and snatched it from my hand. I was left with only donut memories and a dusting of fine sugar crystals on my fingers.

Yes.

That dog ate the donut of my vacation.