Marla stared at her laptop, determined to finish the spreadsheet by noon. Her dog, Biscuit, lay sprawled across the keyboard, tail thumping like a metronome. “Not today, buddy,” she said, nudging him. He yawned, then sneezed into her coffee mug.
Ten minutes later, Marla discovered Biscuit had chewed through her phone charger. “You’re a menace,” she hissed, while he trotted off with a sock in his mouth. The sock reappeared two hours later, lodged in the printer.
By 3 PM, Marla had abandoned productivity. She sat on the floor, filming Biscuit’s attempts to bury a squeaky toy in the couch. He paused, ears twitching, then lunged at a flying crumb. It was a trap: the crumb belonged to her half-eaten pizza, which now lay in a greasy puddle on the floor.
“You’re a disaster,” Marla said, tossing a treat into his mouth. Biscuit swallowed it whole, then stared at her, tail wagging. She sighed, plopped down beside him, and let him lick her face. The spreadsheet? It had been deleted when the printer jammed. But hey, at least the couch was clean now.
