The bag of peanut butter cookies crinkled like a villain’s plan as Biscuit, my 70-pound mutt with the focus of a distracted toddler, locked onto it. I’d left the kitchen for 37 seconds—long enough for him to devise a scheme involving a chair, a counter, and the existential crisis of a treat within reach.
He’d pushed the chair into the cabinet, climbed atop it, and now stood on his hind legs, paws flat against the closed door, tail wagging like a metronome set to ‘desperation.’ I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, as he emitted a sound somewhere between a whimper and a protest song. The cookie crumbs on the floor glittered like clues.
“You’re not fooling anyone,” I said, crouching to eye level. He tilted his head, ears perked, then lunged. The chair wobbled. The cabinet door swung open. Biscuit tumbled forward, landing face-first in a pile of dish soap and existential dread. His tail still wagged.
I scooped him up, his breath reeking of betrayal and coconut. “You’re lucky I’m out of popcorn,” I muttered, but he’d already licked my chin, triumphant. The cookie lay forgotten on the counter, now a symbol of victory for a dog who’d mastered the art of tactical chaos. Sometimes, I think we’re all just trying to get that one thing, aren’t we?”,
