Biscuit was a golden retriever puppy with enormous ears, enormous paws, and an extremely important job. Dad was waiting on the sofa. The last slice of pizza was in the kitchen. And Biscuit had been chosen — specially, officially chosen — to carry it across the living room. He picked it up very carefully. Pepperoni on top. Cheese still warm. Biscuit's tail went stiff with pride.
*Sniff, sniff, sniff.* The smell hit him the moment he stepped through the kitchen doorway. Not just pizza — PIZZA. Tomato and cheese and that one little burnt bit on the crust that smelled like the best thing in the entire universe. Biscuit's nostrils flared. His eyes went very wide. He could not sniff. He could not bark. He could not do anything except walk in a straight line with his mouth full of pizza, which was exactly what he intended to do. Absolutely. Definitely. Starting right now.
*Sniff, sniff, sniff.* He took three steps. Then two steps sideways. Then a small circle to the left. The pepperoni smell was coming from slightly over there, and Biscuit's nose was simply being helpful. His paws squeaked on the floorboards. The pizza wobbled. The sofa was very close. Dad was right there. Biscuit pointed his nose toward it like a compass and walked with great seriousness across the rug.
Then he saw the crumbs. A trail of little golden crumbs curved under the coffee table — just a few, just a tiny trail, just a thing a dog with a very good nose absolutely had to investigate for safety reasons. Biscuit followed them in a slow, determined loop. His nose bumped something hard and flat under the table's shadow. Something skidded out across the floorboards with a sharp plastic clatter. The TV remote spun into the middle of the room and stopped. Mum looked up from her book. She stared at the remote. She stared at Biscuit. She picked it up and pressed a button and the telly flickered on, just like that, after three entire weeks. Her mouth dropped open. "BISCUIT," she said, in a very different voice than usual.
Biscuit was not listening. Biscuit was walking. Pizza in mouth. Tail rotating like a helicopter blade. Ears flopping with each step. He had a job and he was doing it and he was nearly, almost, basically there. He reached Dad's knees and sat down with a proud little thump. He placed the pizza slice on Dad's outstretched hand. Completely intact. Not a single tooth mark. Not one missing piece of pepperoni. Dad laughed the big kind of laugh that comes from the chest. He scratched behind both of Biscuit's ears at the same time, which made Biscuit's back leg do an involuntary tap-tap-tap on the floor.
Then Dad held out the crust. Biscuit took it very gently. He turned around three times, and flopped down across both of Dad's feet, and ate it in four slow, happy bites. The crust was crispy at the edge and chewy in the middle and tasted — actually, if he was being honest — even better than the pepperoni. *Sniff, sniff, sniff.* Just once more, just to make sure. The last crumb was gone. The telly murmured softly. Dad's hand rested warm and heavy on Biscuit's back. Biscuit's eyes went heavy too, then heavier, and his golden chin came to rest on the floor with a small, satisfied bump.
