Doggie bones

I was in Pitial, a suburb to Puerto vallarta, for an entirely different reason when I remembered a maid of some friends of mine--and maids in Mexico are the sources of this kind of information--had mentioned that this was where one would find doggie bones. At the butcher's across from the church.
And there it was, and there I was, deciding to spend a hot ten pesos on something nice for the Worthless Ones. Bones. All dogs love bones. Some dogs survive on bones. Bones are good for dogs.
And I proudly carried my light blue plastic bag full of--to dogs--delicious bones to my car and, this being the last purchase, fought the traffic back to Mismaloya and my house in the woods.
And I baked the bones for a while so the mutts would not have to suffer raw meat and such like.
And then I gave them the bones when they were sufficiently cooled down and................
the mutts gave them a sniff, a look, and then went back to sleep.
There they were, the bones that I thought would vindicate my lack of ardor with the mutts, ignored and cluttering up the floor.
All dogs love bones....
Yeah Right; not these dogs. Not these miserable ungrateful critters. I mean, what does it take to make them sit up and take notice ? Half rotted fish and leftover tortillas ? The kind they seem to be so keen on when they get to share the raid of the raccoons of the garbage in the neighborhood.
I give up. The next time I go to Pitial I shall most certainly NOT buy bones for the dogs. No sir. No how.
Let them suffer the way they make me suffer.