The moment I sat down with a turkey club, Sir Biscuits, my golden retriever, locked eyes with the sandwich like it was a celebrity. He’d been napping for three hours, but suddenly, his nose twitched. I said, “Nope,” but he was already tiptoeing across the kitchen floor, paws silent as a ninja. The cheese slid off the bread as he lunged, snatching it mid-air. I yelled, “That’s my lunch!” but he’d already bolted, sandwich tucked under his chin like a trophy. He hid it in the couch cushion, tail wagging like he’d won the World Cup. I chased him, yelling, “You’re a disgrace!” He barked back, a sound so innocent it made me pause. Then I saw the mess: mustard on the rug, lettuce everywhere. I flopped onto the couch, and he dropped the sandwich at my feet. “You’re lucky I’m hungry,” I said. He licked my hand, slobbery and proud. We ate the sandwich together, crumbs on my shirt, his head on my knee. The chaos? Worth it.”
