Hiccup loves bread with a devotion that borders on obsession. Now and then I catch him on patrol—his nails clicking purposefully against the tile as he makes his rounds through the kitchen and pantry. His head cranes upward, neck stretched taut, nose twitching as he inventories the countertops and island with the focused intensity of a jewel thief casing a mansion. Those dark, intelligent eyes sweep across every surface, cataloging what prizes might wait unattended.
He's memorized the arsenal. He knows exactly what the orange and clear packaging looks like for King's Hawaiian Original Sweet Rolls—that bright, unmistakable beacon of golden, pillowy sweetness. He knows that Sister Schubert's Rolls come in a metal tin and clear package with green print, and he can identify the metallic glint from across the room. He can spot any loaf of bread in any packaging if it's left out on a countertop or even placed in the pantry but not high enough in the breadbasket. White bread. Wheat. Sourdough. It doesn't matter. If it contains carbohydrates and yeast, Hiccup has logged it in his mental database.
Last summer he stole the last of Salty Bee's Cookie Cake while we were at church. The white box centered on the kitchen table, with the kitchen chairs placed like guards, was not enough to keep him out.
Last night he discovered what’s inside the square
cardboard box with black print….pizza.
The last time Savannah took him to the vet for his checkup, she texted me asking what food Hiccup eats, as Dr. Cate always asks what his current dog food is. I answered, "bread" because the boy is naughty. He loves bread with a kind of passion that makes him willing to risk it all.
When someone forgets to put the bread up high enough where
he can't get to it—or if in a hurry we leave it out on the island, still warm
from the grocery store—Hiccup capitalizes on the opportunity with the
efficiency of a seasoned operative. I am sure if he knew how to dispose of the
evidence he would try to hide it, maybe bury the packaging in the backyard or
slide it behind the couch. But because he is a dog and he doesn't possess
opposable thumbs or understand the concept of garbage disposal, we always find
the evidence. We find shredded plastic bags torn into ribbons, cardboard
mutilated beyond recognition, or metal tins scattered across the kennel floor
like the aftermath of a minor explosion. Sometimes there are teeth marks
punctured through the packaging. Other times, the bags look like they've been
through a paper shredder, reduced to confetti-sized pieces that cling to the
blankets with static.
We know Hiccup is not the only guilty one. He is the one to
pull it nonchalantly from the countertop—standing on his hind legs, stretching
every vertebra in his spine, hooking the package with one careful paw and
dragging it toward the edge until gravity does the rest. But once it gets to
the kennel, once the prize has been secured and the plastic ripped open to
reveal the soft, fragrant treasures inside, Cocoa enjoys the winnings along
with him. How do we know? She looks just as guilty when we arrive home. She may hide in the back corner of the kennel, pressed against the metal bars as
if trying to phase through them, or perched on the couch with her body coiled
so tight she's practically vibrating. She won't move from her curled up
position, won't uncurl even slightly. Her gaze will be set on some other place
in the room—the wall, the window, anywhere but our faces—with a quick side-eye
glance toward us to gauge the look on our faces, to measure the magnitude of
the disappointment. Her nose is always tilted downward, tucked almost between
her paws, and she will continue to look away and glance back and forth until it
becomes unbearable for her to sit through the guilt. Her ears flatten against
her skull. Sometimes she trembles slightly, not from cold but from the sheer
weight of her conscience.
Hiccup shows some guilt but not an ounce of remorse. His response is often one of making sure we still love him even though he is naughty, as if his charm and affection might somehow rewind time or erase the crime scene in the kennel.
He approaches with the knob of his tail wagging low
and hesitant, head dipped but eyes bright, and seeks to give and receive
affection. He leans his warm body against my legs, pressing his weight into me,
pretending the shredded bread packaging is completely invisible in his kennel,
as if by ignoring it he can will it out of existence. He'll lick my hand,
nuzzle under my palm, his fur soft and his breath—predictably—smelling like
Hawaiian rolls.
They are supposed to be on a diet. I carefully portion out
their daily scoops of dog food with the precision of a pharmacist, measuring
exact amounts, and monitor who eats what and at what time of the day. I keep
schedules. But the whole plan crumbles into uselessness when bread gets left
out. All my careful calculations dissolve the moment Hiccup spots that orange
package on the counter, and I'm left standing in the kitchen, holding empty
plastic shreds in my hands, wondering how a dog can look so innocent while
being so thoroughly, unrepentantly guilty.
