The supper menu called for a breakfast sandwich (sausage, egg and cheese) served on one of those multi-grained Bagels that Wifey likes. 

I made a command decision and opted for English muffins instead. 

When I say 'opted', however, that really means that I had to come up with plan b, because there weren't any bagels. 

Here's why...

Having just ascended the basement stairs, I saw Satchel surrounded by what surely must have been all the pillows from the den, gnawed to a fare thee well, their freshly gnawed contents throughout the floor. 

It looked like Hells half acre.

My mouth was open. It was beyond open, it was agape. No words came out. Even my adjectives would have to wait.

 Satchel Paige, my floppy eared hound dog who was given to me to ease the pain of not having my grandkids close by, had retrieved the bag of multi-grained bagels--the kind Wifey likes--from the kitchen island. The same kitchen island that is, um, er, was--beyond his nimble reach and sturdy mandible. 

My inability to speak---along with the realization that Satch had just consumed and or scattered the entire bag of multi-grained bagels-- the kind Wifey likes--converged at the same time, and for the next 30 seconds I let fly with nearly all my adjectives, wiping the dust from several that haven't been used in a while.

Bagels. 

Everywhere. 

In all shapes and pieces, chewed and unchewed, not to mention  the larger bagel pieces he took and hid in the corners of the sofa and chair, like he does when hiding his bones for later. 

I was in full afterburner, my phrases spoken in a tongue that fast became a blue streak, but as my mouth was coming in for a landing here's what I saw...if you look close he has a bagel 'stogie' in his mouth. 

Get a dog, they said. It'll be fun, they said.