The sandwich sat, pristine and untouched, on the kitchen counter like a diamond in a pawn shop. I’d slathered it with mayo, layered it with turkey, and topped it with a single slice of cheese that looked like a disco ball in the sunlight. My dog, Biscuit, watched from the couch, his tail thumping so hard it shook the floor. ‘Not a chance,’ I said, lifting the sandwich higher. Biscuit tilted his head, ears perked like satellite dishes. Then he lunged—paws flying, tongue dangling like a windshield wiper—snatching the sandwich mid-air. It hit the floor with a soft *plop*, mayo oozing onto the linoleum. I stared. Biscuit stared back, eyes wide, tail still thumping. ‘You little thief,’ I hissed. He wagged. I picked up the sandwich, now a soggy casualty of war. ‘Nope,’ I said, tossing it into the trash. Biscuit’s ears drooped. He slumped into the couch, head on paws, looking like a sad emoji. But then—*sniff*—he perked up, nostrils flaring. Somewhere in the house, a bag of chips rustled. Biscuit bolted, leaving a trail of drool and determination. I sighed, staring at the empty counter. The sandwich was gone. The chips were gone. And somehow, my life felt like a comedy sketch written by a dog.
