Looking for his treats...

My Dog is regularly fed. He hates what I give him. "Tough luck, kiddo kanine! The Vet says..."
Thee driyeh-stufe hahs lowts ovv vwery eenteressteeng veetamins awnd meeneralz!
And Moses replies behind a grumpy Weimaraner harrumph...
Oh, really?
In between what The Dog hates, he gets pieces of dried bread for a treat after every w-a-l-k, etc. He loves them. In fact, I think he lives for them... dammit.
Once-upon-a-time, the dried bread was the only way I could get these Bach Flower Drops down his ever lasting Weimaraner gullet. You see, Our Italian Spiritual Adviser, Tiziana, during a visit to our parts for Our Spiritual Maintainence, was seriously concerned that Moses was... how did she put it? Oh, yes. Well, in her Italian translated into English, she might have said...
Yeurrr dowg eez verwy deepres-sed, tooo teemid awnd heee eez vwerry unhahppee dowg.
An Italian of any description cannot hear the "s" at the end of a word. Moses is often called Moser, a horrible & yucky sounding name. Moses is so....? So biblical!
Anyway, shortly thereafter, I was entrusted with the very unpleasant task of corralling The Dog for his Spiritual Drops. Idiotically, I tried to directly open said Weimaraner gullet and drip the damn drops down it. I consistently risked a Weimaraner Revolution... not to mention his Total & Complete Censure. The Dog would run-off to his bed where, by a previously signed Articles of Convention between Man & Beast, I am prohibited from administering any medicines, what so ever!!! There he thumbed his Weimaraner nose at me... dammit.
Later, I attempted to use the guise of a hotdog. Have you ever tried to drown a hotdog bit with enough of a restorative oily liquid to pull your pootch from a spiralling depression? Don't.
Then, in the calm of a bright sunny winter's morning, munching on a piece of toast with cheese, I got a Beeg Idea. Bread!!! Naturally, without the toasted cheese. No sense in conditioning The Dog to expect more than what is practical or reasonable, no? So, putting the spiritually sustaining droplets on a piece of pane integrale, I tricked The Dog with a treat... with perhaps a too stunning rate of Success... the prescribed Spiritual Salvation Treatment.
Fine. The Dog ain't drepressed no more. But, if I do not forthwith hand-over a piece of bread... even without the drops... to The Dog after any outdoor excursion, I am summarily reprimanded by a loud bark. He should be grateful he doesn't have to roam the streets for treats! Gads.