It began like any other evening, getting home from work with a "to do" list longer than the remaining awake hours of the day allowed. But there was a difference; from the kitchen counter the smells of the pork roast in the crock pot wafted through the house, encouraging the residents to get some of the "to do" list deeds accomplished to sit down and eat.
One by one, the residents of the home grabbed some dinner and headed off for bed. The house guest, the first one to go, pronounced the roast "splended" and "perfect for my lunch sandwich tomorrow." Dad, heading to bed early, grabbed his dinner and went upstairs to watch some TV in peace (somehow he doesn't consider 17 Siberians conducive to "peace").
Mom and Grandma continued to toil, one by one crossing off the items on their lists and looking forward, with great delight, to consuming some of the roast that had been tantalizing their senses for hours.
Finally, the time had come. Mom and Grandma pronounced themselves "done for the day." Mom went upstairs to kiss Dad goodnight and Grandma let the canine crew in for some evening quality time.
The peace of the evening was shattered with Grandma's shriek of "RYYYYDDEERRR" echoing through the house. As Mom jumped up to run downstairs she analzyed the vocal qualities of the shreiking. After concluding that it wasn't a dog fight kind of yell, she slowed enough to take the stairs one at a time. By the time she arrived downstairs, all was quiet. There were no tell tail yellow stains indicating Ryder had lifted his leg inappropriately; there were no destroyed pieces of clothing or furniture....what was that shriek for?
Grandma recounted Ryder's offense: He ATE the remaining pork roast! Ryder, the Master Counter Surfer, waited until Grandma was distracted by the 12 other dogs in the house (including the three very accomplished distracting puppies) and snagged three pounds of pork roast off the counter with out making a single sound. His mad dash for the crates gave him away as the primary suspect in the case of the missing dinner.
Grandma and Mom settled down for their dinner of brussel sprouts, the scent of pork roast tantalizing them with their loss. Then Mom uttered those fateful words: "I hope that gives you the sh*ts, Ryder."
P.S. It didn't.
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