The day my dog, Biscuit, decided to overthrow the sandwich hierarchy began with a peanut butter smear on the living room floor. I was mid-work call, explaining to my boss that yes, I *did* need a 3 PM break to rehydrate after wrestling a 12-pound Chihuahua into a kiddie pool. Biscuit, meanwhile, had other plans.
He’d been eyeing the turkey club on the kitchen counter like it was a celebrity at a red carpet event. I caught him mid-pounce—paws mid-air, tail a metronome of obsession—before the sandwich hit the floor with a soft *squelch*. “No!” I yelped, lunging for it. Biscuit barked, which is his version of a strategic retreat, and bolted through the cat’s litter box, leaving a trail of paw prints that looked like a toddler’s abstract art project.
By the time I cornered him in the closet, he was chewing the sandwich like it was a mystery novel. “You’re gonna get sick,” I said, waving a hand in front of his face. Biscuit tilted his head, then regurgitated a half-eaten pickle onto my loafers. The pickle rolled under the fridge. I stared at it. It stared back.
Later, I found the sandwich in the fish tank, floating next to a goldfish that looked like it had seen a ghost. Biscuit was napping on the couch, a slice of bread lodged in his ear. The only thing more ridiculous than the situation was the fact that I’d already started a spreadsheet titled “Pet Emergency Contacts.”
