Part 8

I dodged, hopped onto the couch and jumped over the back, bolting into the kitchen which smelled like Boston Market roasted chicken. My nose is never wrong. A bag filled with potatoes, gravy, coleslaw and a steaming chicken sat on the counter next to the sink. I snatched it to the floor and tore through the plastic, paper and Styrofoam, woofing down some potatoes and gravy. Mrs. Angleton rushed into the Kitchen, arms flapping like a chicken trying to fly.

"Oh, stop! EINSTEIN!!!" She squawked.

I decided to take the chicken to go and bolted down to the basement, bursting into Einstein's room and plopping onto his bed. Mrs. Angleton's cries of woe carried down the stairs, but she had stopped at the top. Einstein has told her that if she enters his room without permission, he will move out. (As if that would ever happen.)

"Mom, I can't hear myself think! Meat Head, get off my bed!" Einstein jumped out of his computer chair, or tried to. The seat—I love to shove my nose there when he's not home because it smells like stale farts and Doritos—stuck to his butt. He stumbled and fell face first into the carpet. The chair extended from his butt like a strange, fifth limb, wheels spinning fast and then slowing.
"Sexy." I barked as I gulped down the rest of the chicken. The bones made a lovely crunch, crunch. "When your chair gets stuck, that means you've been sitting and playing computer games too long."
"Your dog ate our dinner," Mrs. Angleton snarled. "I told you to shut the solid door!"

Don't worry. She yells a lot about everything. You should have heard her all the Thanksgivings and Christmases I ate the turkey and the ham.

"What am I supposed to do about it now?" Einstein growled back.

"Don't whine to me later that you're hungry." Mrs. Angleton slammed the door.

Her footsteps thundered over our heads as she stomped angrily about the kitchen. I licked the chicken juice from my muzzle and the bed sheets. Then I jumped from the bed and nosed around Einstein.
"Bad dog," he said, pushing me away as he removed the chair from his butt. Then he climbed awkwardly to his feet and hulked over me, finger pointed. "You need to stop stealing food."
"Bad human," I barked. "You need to start exercising yourself."

I turned my attention to the staircase, snuffling around for any chicken crumbs I might have dropped.
"My bed is all messed… is that chicken grease? Oh no, you tracked that stinky dirt everywhere." My human whined and then yelled, "Mom, I need new sheets!"

Overhead came the stomp, stomp, stomp of an angry mother. The basement door burst open, and Mrs. Angleton hurled a fresh set of sheets down the stairs, slamming the door, whap!