CSI San Diego: The Scapegoat
When I saw the box of popcorn chicken sitting all alone on our still undecorated Christmas tree, I was befuddled. “Is that a KFC Christmas ornament?” I asked. The kids shrugged noncommittally, which I took as an affirmative. How would I know? I haven’t eaten there since the Clinton administration. This was Grandparent work, make no mistake.
It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized that it was not a KFC box-like ornament, but an actual empty box, trash, that one of the kids had stuck on the tree for reasons unknown.
Which of course a dog plucked off the tree as soon as they had 10 minutes alone with it.
Brody, of course. He is always the troublemaker in events such as this. But, it was a box that ostensibly smelled like greasy chicken, so I had to give him a pass on that.
I did not, however, give him a pass on what I found in the kitchen:
A mysterious powdery substance blanketed the floor. Had Charlie Sheen broken in during the 15 minutes I was out of the house when all this mischief transpired? What was that stuff?
It looked like flour, but all my flour was in sealed canisters. And what would a dog want with a bag of flour? Was it stevia? Sugar?
For lack of a better plan, I stuck my finger in the remnants and took a taste. It reminded me somewhat of coffee creamer, of which there was none in the house.
The packaging had mostly been ingested by the perp as well. All I had was a sliver of a hint as to its origins:
I thought it was rawhide until I looked more closely and realized it was brown paper. And then it all made sense- the dairyish taste, the sticky texture. Somehow Brody had gotten a bag of Fido’s Frosting out of the pantry and eaten the whole thing. At least it was just powdered yogurt, something specifically made for dogs- not like I keep bags of xylitol laying around, but, well, good thing I don’t.
“Brody,” I said, looking at him with a mixture of frustration and confusion. “How did you get this off the middle shelf of the pantry? Did you have an accomplice?”
He didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed.
Usually in these situations he slinks a little, or hides behind the counter. “You’re getting good,” I said. “Your poker face almost has me convinced you had no part in this.”
Then, I heard it. A persistent lick-lick-lick. The kind of lick one might make if one were, for example, trying desperately to hide the sticky evidence left by the combination of powdered yogurt and dog saliva.
She might have gotten away with it if she weren’t jet black. No, that’s not white fur on her nose.
Or her chest. Or her feet. When I finally put two and two together, she just sat there with a shocked expression like I caught her nose deep in a pile of blow and it was so funny I just had to sit there and laugh. And take pictures.
Poor Brody. Not a crumb on him, by the way.
