Bill’s dog Bear and Court and my dog Fritz, when they were puppies, circa 1991. They died of old age. We didn’t eat them.

I recently was arranging a lunch with a friend via text messaging. She works south near Lincoln and I-25. She mentioned an Italian place near there, and I recalled a wonderful pizza place where Court and I used to meet for lunch.

Me to her: I can’t remember what it’s called, but I would love to meet you there.

She to me: It’s called Via Baci. They have an amazing dog and proscuitto appetizer. You would love it.

Now that brought me up short. Hmmmm. Seriously? DOG and prosciutto? It doesn’t really sound that good to me. Dining on Fido.

Now, of course, I knew she didn’t actually mean dog. That would be silly, wouldn’t it? And we have all had our skirmishes with autocorrect. But I sat there for the longest time trying to figure out what she might actually have meant, to no avail.

Finally I texted her back: Dog and prosciutto? 

It took a few minutes, but she finally came back with her reply: Not DOG. It should be FIG. Damn autocorrect.

Fig sounded way better than dog. And, as it turns out, it was. Delicious, in fact.

Have a great weekend.