The purloined dessert

It all started with a purloined dessert.

My name is Tina, although my parents call me a bunch of names, like "sweet T," little T," huggy, but most of the time, they call me, "The T." These are pet names, which are totally appropriate because I'm a dog. Once in a while, my parents call me Tina Louise -- only when I'm bad -- and this is ridiculous because only dogs with a pedigree have middle names and I'm a mutt.

I have a very serious job where I live. I'm in charge of the kitchen. I must respond at a moment's notice and always be alert to the most subtle changes -- like a refrigerator door opening, a drawer being pulled out, a box or bag being ripped open, something hitting the floor. I will wake up from the deepest sleep when humans tiptoe into the kitchen. They think they are sneaky and can actually get something to eat without me hearing them. But, guess what? I'm parked in front of their feet before they can get completely into the room. I supervise all meal preparation and clean-up, and, of course, watch carefully while the food is consumed.

I got serious about kitchen supervision shortly after being adopted from the Humane Society and coming to my new home. My mom and dad went outside to say goodbye to my grandparents after a visit and they left my favorite dessert sitting on the table where I could reach it. At least, it was within my grasp after I climbed on a chair and knocked the plate to the floor where I wiped out what was left of the chocolate ganache tarts. This is nirvana to a dog. If I died from a chocolote overdose, it was worth every lick.

A call to the local 24-hour veterinary hospital reassured my mommy that I wouldn't die, but I might get real sick. Well, that's for wimps and those fru-fru kinds of dogs who wear bling and paint their nails. Chocolote has no adverse effects on my health. I have a cast-iron stomach.

Anyway, this is when I got serious about kitchen supervision and I've been at it every since.