I was minding my own business, you understand. One of the Moms was making herself lunch, and quite naturally, I was
under foot supervising the process. She may have happened to leave a stick of butter on the counter. May have. Being a dog small in stature, if large in heart, I had no chance of reaching the counter, and anyways, I am a good dog. There’s no way I would have sought that delicious rectangle of creamy delight stick of butter on my own.
Maybe. Maybe, just to let Mom know that it was left out.
But then . . . well. The cats, you see. Gathered around it. Going on and on and on about how delicious it was . . . and then, maybe one happened to knock it on the floor. Maybe a dog might have happened to try a lick, to see what all the hub-bub was about.
Maybe a dog couldn’t help himself when he grabbed the delicious creamy rectangle of heavenly delight and ran off with it.
Mom saved roughly a tablespoon of it from its ill fate. Unfortunately, this did nothing to save my stomach from the upset to come later. . . and now the Moms keep calling me Mr. Butterworth, and Butterball, and Corbie J. ButterBane!
I shun them both!