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It's 11 o'clock at night. I've just eaten a frozen, small, pizza as a substitute for cooking at this hour as I had the late shift at work. I happened to have opted to eat this meal in bed, lemonade from a mix in my lap, computer too and yellow lab staring me full in the face just hoping I might spare a bit for him. Nevermind that this labrador has had training time (insert handful of kibble) and bribery time (insert me filling peanut butter into a devoured old Starbucks reusable cup, while I shower so he stays in the bathroom and doesn't go all destructo on me). I eat my pizza. I'm happily checking out The Bloggess. Orion has since left the room and I wait for the usual clatter of dishes to tell me he's scouting out the countertops. There's the interaction with the cookie sheet (for which I cooked the pizza), there's the clang of the cup full of silverware I have to wash--let's be honest, who DOESN'T save the silverware for last. I hate washing them. And then in walks my dog, calmly toting the empty lemonade powder mix. I look up. I acknowledge what he has and just laugh. I mean really, what more can you do?