Barnaby the beagle, a fluffy cloud of mischief with a penchant for stolen socks, eyed the roast chicken suspiciously. It sat on the kitchen counter, glistening under the kitchen light, a culinary Everest he desperately desired to conquer. His human, Susan, was engrossed in a phone call, oblivious to Barnaby’s ambitious plans.
“Yes, darling, absolutely, I’ll be there by seven,” Susan chirped into her phone. Barnaby seized his opportunity. He launched himself onto a chair, then onto the counter, a furry, four-legged projectile aiming for chicken-related glory.
Suddenly, a voice boomed, “Barnaby! Get down from there, you furry bandit!” It wasn’t Susan. It was Susan’s husband, David, a man whose booming voice could curdle milk at fifty paces. David, who was normally about as animated as a garden gnome, was clearly not amused.
Barnaby, mid-leap, froze. The roast chicken, tantalizingly close, was forgotten. He scrambled back, tail tucked low, a picture of canine contrition. David, eyes narrowed, moved towards him with the determined gait of a man on a mission.
“You know,” David said, picking Barnaby up gently, “I’ve had it with your sock-stealing, chicken-coveting ways. Frankly, I’ve had it with you.” He paused dramatically, looking directly at Barnaby. “Susan, darling, I’m divorcing you…and keeping the dog.”
