The Great Pretzel Explosion

It is a habit of mine to gravitate toward whoever happens to be eating food. I do this to ensure the occurrence of at least one of the following three scenarios:

1. The person eating might take pity on me, the poor starving dog at his feet, and let me have a taste (don’t judge…there’s a chance that I wouldn’t have eaten for a full two hours prior to this).
2. I might be called into action as the official taste tester (obviously to protect the humans—make sure their food-stuff hasn’t gone bad). 
3. The person eating might suffer from a deliciously named bout of “butter fingers.”

And do you know what the greatest thing about all these scenarios is? They generally all result in me getting something to eat. What a wonderful coincidence! Anyway, my favorite of these three scenarios is the third because it generally allows for the biggest payload for me. Think about it, the first two are controlled donations to my stomach. The third? Well, anything goes.

Which is exactly what happened a few days ago.

Ma was in the kitchen packing the lunch she was going to take to work. I was sitting in the threshold between the kitchen and the dining room—just inches away from the “something absorbent” (the rug) that everyone always begs me to sit on due to my excessive drooling—keeping watch over the transfer of food. She had already put her sandwich in her lunch bag as well as the apple that we both knew she would never get around to eating and would eventually bring home with her at the end of the day (which is why I check her lunch bag whenever I get the chance—you never know what might be left over from lunchtime). Anyway, next came the bag of pretzels. Ma went to the cupboard, retrieved a brand new bag of pretzels, and opened it. Reaching in, she grabbed one and flipped it to me. I missed it (catching is not my forte), but gobbled it up on the rebound. Then I watched as Ma walked across the kitchen to the drawer that houses the little zip-locked baggies she was going to pack her snack in.

Days later, I still dream about what happened next.

As Ma pulled open the drawer with one hand, the full bag of pretzels in the other started slipping from her grasp. Ma juggled the bag—back and forth—between both hands until it finally got away from her completely. Suddenly, the skies opened up and it started raining pretzels in the kitchen.

Wasting no time, I quickly jumped up and scurried toward the scene, scooping up stray pretzels as I went. Ma, meanwhile, dropped to the floor intent on gathering and guarding the epicenter of the spill. While this was a noble effort in theory, it was, in actuality, pretty near impossible to carry out; I am way too skilled at pushing my way into situations for one person to both guard a stockpile of food now long past the five second rule and hold me off. Two people might have succeeded, but Pa was already at work and Sister was useless as she was currently doubled over with laughter having witnessed the pandemonium.

Eventually, Ma succeeded in gathering up some of the pretzels (to add insult to injury, she threw these pretzels out) and I succeeded in eating a fair portion of the original spill. Sister, meanwhile, complained that her stomach hurt from laughing.

It’s been days since the “Great Pretzel Explosion,” but proof of its occurrence is still evident throughout the house. Every once in a while I come across a stray pretzel—under a chair, in a corner, by the bathroom door. Pa even found a stash in the drawer Ma was opening during the explosion. Personally, I’m looking forward to someone moving the refrigerator to vacuum underneath it. I predict there will be quite the stash there.