The kitchen smelled like regret and burnt basil. I’d left my avocado toast unattended for 37 seconds—37 seconds!—and now Sir Biscuits, my 80-pound dachshund with the soul of a thief, was pawing at the counter like a madman. His tiny head bobbed as he stared down the toast, which had somehow migrated to the edge of the island. I swear, the bread was taunting him.
“No, Sir Biscuits,” I said, stepping closer. “That’s not a toy. That’s a…a…culinary crime scene.”
He barked once, a sharp, interrogative sound, then lunged. His front paws hit the counter with the grace of a drunk acrobat, and the toast flew—arc-ing through the air like a rogue pizza slice. I lunged too, but my foot caught the leg of the dining table, and I went down hard, knocking over a vase of daisies. They hit the floor with the solemnity of a funeral procession.
Sir Biscuits stood triumphantly atop the counter, toast clamped in his jaws. He looked at me, blinked, then crunched. The sound was louder than a lawnmower. I sat there, half-ducked under the table, as he swallowed the evidence like a mob boss sealing a deal.
“You’re a monster,” I whispered. He wagged his tail, then trotted off, leaving a trail of breadcrumb confetti. The toast was gone. The daisies were crushed. My dignity? Also toast.”
