When I was little, my dad would bring home a nasty cut of raw beef to give to the dog. The dog would love it. He’d prance (doberman) around the back yard happier than a pig in shit. At the end of the day, he’d bury it. Then he’d proceed to dig it up every few days and prance around chewing on it for a day, then re-bury it. He’d repeat that until it had rotted to the point that he couldn’t differentiate the rotten meat from the dirt it was buried in.
My mum would do the same thing with her dog, a big collie. Every two weeks she’d bring it a new big beef bone with meat still on it, and the dog would take a couple of weeks to eat it, and burying it between sessions.
When I was little, my dad would bring home a nasty cut of raw beef to give to the dog. The dog would love it. He’d prance (doberman) around the back yard happier than a pig in shit. At the end of the day, he’d bury it. Then he’d proceed to dig it up every few days and prance around chewing on it for a day, then re-bury it. He’d repeat that until it had rotted to the point that he couldn’t differentiate the rotten meat from the dirt it was buried in.
My mum would do the same thing with her dog, a big collie. Every two weeks she’d bring it a new big beef bone with meat still on it, and the dog would take a couple of weeks to eat it, and burying it between sessions.