The turkey sandwich sat, golden-brown and dripping, on the counter like a juicy target. Biscuit, my poodle of dubious moral fiber, nose-wiggled closer, eyes locked on the condiment parade. I flicked mustard onto the bread—*schtick*—and suddenly, chaos. A blur of fur, a yelp, and the sandwich vanished.
“Biscuit!” I lunged, but the little thief had already vaulted onto the couch, sandwich clamped in his jaws like a pirate’s treasure. He barked—a triumphant, grizzly roar—and sprinted through the living room, dodging my flailing arms. The sandwich hit the floor with a *splat*, turkey slices scattering like confetti.
I crouched, hand outstretched. “Give. It. Back.” Biscuit tilted his head, innocent as a puppy who’d never heard the word ‘no.’ Then, with a dramatic sigh, he dropped the sandwich… onto my bare foot.
“You little–” I yelped, hopping on one foot as he wagged his tail like a satisfied smuggler. The sandwich, now a soggy pancake, oozed mayonnaise down my sock. Biscuit leaned in, licking my ankle with the reverence of a man who’d just stolen a million dollars.
I stared at him. He stared back, ears perked, tail still wagging. The turkey scent hung thick in the air. I sighed. “You’re a menace.”
He barked again, this time like he agreed.