GIMME GIMME GIMME, I NEED, I NEED

Sad, sighing puppy.

He was munching on something papery under my desk that I knew he wasn't supposed to have. His favorite hobby is to sneak little scraps of paper out of the trash and rip them into teeny weeny confetti, which he then strews across the floor to make snow. This time, the paper was an old receipt from Cub.

I felt around with my toes until I had my feet on the paper, then scooted it away from him to where I could see it on the floor beside my chair. The Captain immediately slithered over to reclaim the receipt, thinking he was a ninja. He almost had his teeth around the paper when I froze him solid with the dread command "LEAVE IT."

He hasn't moved since. He's still down there, all scrunched up with his muzzle resting dejected on the floor, mere inches from the tantalizing crumple of his stolen prize. His eyes have glazed over. He has no will to live; existence is meaningless without that receipt.

Every now and then gives a deep and tragic sigh to let me know how very much he wants to eat this little scrap of paper. He hopes with the naked optimism of a child that I might take pity and let him have it, just this once, if only to save him from complete emotional collapse.

Bless his little heart. Three months we've lived together, and he still hasn't figured out what a sadistic bastard I am.