Note: This took place one week when I happened to be puppy-sitting for a friend. The puppy in question was a 6-month old West Highland Terrier named Earnie, whom I affectionately referred to as “The White Devil”. Terriers, in general, are not easy dogs to live with. They “get into shit”. A lot.
     I had gone down the street to grab a drink, leaving A at home to look after Earnie, with instructions that if he got too annoying (likely) to give me a call and we’d come back. After about 30 minutes, I got the call, but it didn’t have to do with the puppy. A was simply inquiring as to how one would go about turning the oven on (it’s quite an old stove, and I hadn’t given her the entire training regimen yet), and after a quick tutorial, I clicked off and settled back into my Martini. A short time later, I started to wonder how she’d gotten on with the stove, and the following ensued:

Z: So did you get the oven working? Or did you burn down the house?

A: Seared the puppy. Oops.

Z: I hear BBQ sauce goes well with seared puppy.

A: I’ll save you a leg.