The Jamón Job

Bernard's watched as the men walked out the door. He slunk to the front window and watched the car pull out. It sped off down the street.

He returned to the kitchen to stare again at the Jamón Serrano he coveted with his entire being, fixated on the flaky meat glistening in the evening's waning light.

A quick check at the window, an empty street below, reassured Bernard that the gentlemen would not be returning soon. He bounded back into the kitchen and placed his two giant paws onto the giant oak table, the first in a long line of "bad dog" moves he would make this evening. He grabbed bone gingerly between his teeth. The salt burned his tongue as he dragged the hock around the living room, through the bedroom door, onto his flannel bed. The sweet juice pooling in the folds of the cushion.

Alternatively enjoying his stolen plunder and practicing his sad, guilty eyes, the big dog writhed in the ecstasy found in the sinful devouring of a forbidden piece of meat.

The anger would come, the begging for forgiveness, but for now there was only a large mutt and meat removed lovingly from the bone.