I've spent three years working as a Vegas Dealer. Not drugs. Not cards. Not as roulette croupier. I'm a Vegas treat dealer. A treat dealer signaling there's no more treats left for you, dog.
A casino croupier, or dealer, ends a shift during play. There's always games going. When a new croupier arrives at a gaming table to take over for the current dealer, there is a process. Etiquette as much as flair. Inherited protocols proclaiming no shenanigans on the house's part outside of the odds already stacked in their favor.
The new dealer announces his arrival verbally. Casinos have their own verbaige specific, but it boils down to, "New dealer on the floor."
The current dealer sets his items down on the table in a prescribed pattern, clearly, with confidence. He displays the back of both his hands, then the open palms to all players on the table. Finally he claps them and steps back one step. Players at the table can tip their exiting croupier at this time. The new croupier steps in front. The relieved croupier steps backwards never putting his back to the table until his replacement is in position. At that time, he walks off the floor.
It's the hand flipping and clapping I borrowed.
Angus has never been a foodie in the purest sense. Food is an option, that's all. Unless it's cantaloupe or something dad may be enjoying himself. And once this hound is on the scent and his eyes are on a prize. You aren't going to get him off.
It took a year for him to finally believe the hand flurry. I added "All gone!" to the clap. He's good at disengaging immediately at year three. He may look over his shoulder hopeful, but he knows the game is over.
Dante being Number Two arrival learns through Angus. Alas, Dante is a foodie. He's a foodie like a Food Channel Chef. Except he isn't discriminating. This whole "all gone" is BS to him. It can't be true, therefore it is not true. In case you don't believe him he will paw your knee, and dive, head first, between you and whatever is in his way. Counter, table, chair, another human, a perceived ghost, a verbal sigh. He is a bumper car. He is a one dog demolition derby.
He past his first birthday and that "click" all dog people understand about this time happened. I totally Vegased him at breakfast and he accepted the hand clap "all gone". He did leave with a staffy pout and bark that makes children run up trees, though.
Not that his barks mean much. He sits on the deck barking at the winds. Yawning, lowering himself to lay down. The last bark comes from between his flappy jowls like wet laundry on a clothes line. The wind flapping drooling ends of sheets and all.