Timothy LOVED shortbread biscuits. Like they were made of crack. Sometimes Annette had a shortbread finger with her cup of tea in the mornings. Timothy knew where the tin was, and what it sounded like when it was opened. He’d ecpect a cut of any biscuit – at least the last 5mm.
Often we’d come home from shopping with all the food in bags, take out a Mini Markies box, empty the biscuits into a container, and put one Markie back in the box for Timothy to tear open and get to. It took a bit of encouragement and reassurance that he COULD do it, but he learned.
He learned so well that one day we left the shopping in bags and went out, forgetting about the packet of shortbread fingers. 10 fingers in a packed. Timothy sound it, opened it, and ate EIGHT, leaving only two.
Heroically, he still ate his dinner that evening. He maintained his love for them, having had some most weeks, including in his last. Shortbread biscuits will always remind us of Timothy.