The rain tapped the window like a toddler with a hammer. I’d just settled into my “work from home” zone—coffee within reach, pants not immediately suspicious—when Biscuit, my 40-pound Chihuahua, materialized beside me with the focus of a commando on a mission. He stared at my desk, tail twitching like a metronome set to panic.
“Not today, buddy,” I said, swiveling my chair.
He didn’t budge. Instead, he let out a sound that was 60% whine and 40% existential dread. My sandwich—turkey, mayo, the crusts cut off like a toddler’s haircut—was now a mythic artifact.
Biscuit launched himself at my leg, claws clicking against the floor. I yelped, sloshing coffee onto my shirt. He seized the moment, darting to the kitchen counter where my sandwich now rested, triumphant, like it’d just won a Pulitzer.
“You little thief,” I hissed, chasing him through the apartment. He zigzagged past the couch, over the cat’s food bowl, and into the hallway, sandwich clamped in his jaws like a pirate’s treasure.
I tackled him in the laundry room. The sandwich flew, landing nose-first in a pile of socks. Biscuit stared at it, then at me, as if to say, “You’re welcome.”
Later, I found him napping on the sandwich, head tilted like a confused owl. The sock pile? A makeshift nest.
We never spoke of it again.
