Delivered Dish and the Brisket Assassin

Under The Table Special Correspondent Lucy here. Dog about town that I am, you’ve undoubtedly seen me strolling around Portland sticking my nose into various things of interest–my trash can, your trash can, my dinner, your dinner, my crotch, your crotch. That’s how I roll.


Special Correspondent Lucy

Not to boast, but I live a pretty easy life–I’m beautiful, so people give me pretty much everything I want, and I’m a dog, so it’s humanity’s responsibility to cater to my every whim, by taking me to the park, throwing my gooey ball repeatedly even though they’re clearly sick of doing so, scratching my belly, filling my food bowl, leaving the toilet seat up, etc.

But my world of unfettered pleasure was turned upside down last night. It started out innocently enough. My Guardian Mette took me to the park after her “job,” whatever that is, and then she let me run around the back yard sniffing beetles until her friend Jen, the one who always smells like chocolate, came over for “Girls’ Night,” whatever that is–from what I can tell it’s just an excuse to watch The Bachelor Pad instead of taking me to the park again. What-ever.

Four skimpy ear scratches later, they were ignoring me, deep in discussion about something called Takeout. Apparently they’re even lazier than, well, me, because they couldn’t be bothered to go retrieve the takeout, so they needed someone to pick it up and throw it to them. Or whatever. I wasn’t really listening. I knew that one girl had some chocolate in her pockets somewhere and I was busy surreptitiously attempting to relieve her of it.

They got on the Internet, but instead of researching air-conditioned canine spas like I telepathically asked them too, they spent about 70 dog minutes browsing Delivered Dish, a website that’s been trained to retrieve your Takeout. Suckers!


They took forever deciding what they wanted to eat. I was like, Krispy Kremes for Dinner! Krispy Kremes for Dinner! but who the heck listens to me? Nobody, that’s who.


They settled on Podnah’s Pit BBQ, which it has to be said, I was more than fine with because I love me some of Rodney Muirhead’s brisket.


These two girls can eat like Great Danes, so they ordered about 350 dog pounds of food. Seriously. I got sweaty paws just thinking about it. They set the table and put on their dumb girls’ night show, and the whole room was filled with the whines and yips and growls of that googly-eyed Vienna girl who’s a worse tramp than my unspayed second cousin. I was like, aggghhh, my poor brain is going to need a hot soapy B-word after this.


Casually, I hung around, looking innocent, planning my BBCoup, one floppy ear on the door. Mette was getting antsy, wondering when their Takeout was going to be Delivered, watching, waiting. Well now she knows how I feel when my dinner is two minutes late.

ddishmetteiswaitingFinally the doorbell rang and I played it Kool and the Gang, acting like I was just a happy-go-lucky welcoming committee, not a highly trained brisket assassin. Hunter the Delivered Dish Guy totally fell for it, and he was about to hand me the BBQ Takeout, but it was intercepted. Curses!


Things went downhill from there. The girls fell on the bags like untrained Jack Russells, spreading their meaty feast around and filling the air with smells the likes of which I haven’t experienced except in my wildest fantasies about being a cowdog at a Wyoming Gastro-Dude Ranch.


There were ribs. There was Draper Valley Farms smoked chicken. There were long, moist, fatty strips of BRISKET. There were beans, and potato salad, and coleslaw and cornbread and that crisp, crunchy Iceberg wedge salad Podnah’s makes with the chunky blue cheese dressing, you know the one? Yeah, so basically I was going C-R-A-Z-Y.


I slowly moved into position. This was my Battle of BBQ Hill and I was Colonel William “Lucy” Prescott and I was waiting ’til I saw the whites of their eyes. Or the whites of my eyes. Whatever. History isn’t really my forte.


One of those girls filled a plate, and I was like, smart thinking dollface, just give me the goods and nobody’s brisket gets hurt and I won’t have to spend the whole night in doggie detention. Sounds like a din-din win-win to me.


I was just about to pull an Adam ‘n Eve and relieve Mette of her rib, when she caught on to my scheme. I got The Finger.


I’m not saying I took it well, either.

ddishlucysadThe girls were stuffing their faces and yammering on, like, “Oh, isn’t it amazingly convenient that Delivered Dish brought us all this food so we didn’t have to walk 140 dog blocks to Podnah’s our lazy selves,” and “Oh, isn’t Jake so dumb to give Vienna the 3rd rose when she’s clearly playing him,” and “Oh, crap, who forgot the dessert,” and blah blah blah. And I’m thinking, where’s a fire alarm to pull when you need one?!

Anyway, to make a long story short, I got hosed last night and I’m not very happy about it and I’d like to make a formal complaint. And by formal complaint I mean, a thorough licking of the scene of the indignity.

ddishlucylickingfloorIn parting, I’d like to say “Thanks a heap, Hunter the Delivered Dish Guy.” If you’d just tossed me the bag of nosh in the first place, this whole travesty could have been averted. And I’m going to leave a flaming bag of Lucy poo on your doorstep just as soon as I take a little nap, so watch your back.


Delivered Dish sponsored the meal behind this posting. You too can have brisket (or lots of other tasty foods) delivered to you and your favorite Brisket Assassin by going to