The Hellacious Hound who rules this household with an iron paw recently decided to duke it out with me for a mini Panettone left behind by one of the many relatives who visited us last weekend. Neither of us was sure it was left behind on purpose. Neither of us cared.
I tore open the top of the Panettone's little cardboard robe, revealing a tempting golden crown.
The Hound leaped onto the couch beside me and laid his possessive paw across my lap.
I scootched over, holding the Panettone close to my chest. The Hound scootched over with me.
"NO," I said sternly. "This is MINE."
The Hound looked at me and did that eyebrow shifting thing dogs like to do. That thing I usually fall for because it is cute.
"No dice, Hound."
He tilted his head. More cute. But I stood my ground. "THIS," I said, enunciating clearly, as he is a non-native speaker, "IS FOR HUMANS."
The Hound looked at me blankly, then brought his paw down on the Panettone, expertly tearing its robe open further with one pointed nail. That robe was beautiful, all red and yellow and shiny, before the Hellacious one ripped it.
The Panettone's crown, glossy and tender, emerged in its full glory. I got up and moved to a chair.
The Hound leaped off the couch and parked himself at my feet.
"NO," I repeated, digging my fingers into the soft crown and tearing off a gorgeous chunk of golden flesh.
The Hound tensed and licked his chops.
I ate the golden chunk.
The Hound leaped onto my lap. "Get OFF!" I commanded, but it was too late. As quick as a frog snaring a fly he lunged at the Panettone and bolted it, cardboard robe and all.
I'm concerned about those raisins. I told him so but he doesn't care. He's resting smugly in a dusty shaft of sunlight, shifting his eyebrows and looking innocent.