One December morning I was making Christmas cookies with my friend Carol. The house was full of Christmas Crap decor - all the stuff that waits 11 months in the basement to come upstairs and clutter up your house during the holidays, and you have to move out your regular crap to make room for the Christmas crap? That stuff. Anyway, it was morning and Gary was sleeping and the dogs (I thought) were tooling around underfoot.
Suddenly Gary screamed from the bedroom: "Auuugghghgh! Augghgh! Damn it Ellen, the dogs have a bag of chocolate chips and they're eating it!"
Well, you with dogs know this is a crisis. Carol and I dropped our spatulas and ran into the bedroom to find McDonnell and Douglas in the closet chewing, this was true, on a noisy cellophane bag. A bag that contained Fred. Technically, the cremated remains (cremains) of our late dog Fred. What sounded to Gary like dogs chewing through to chocolate chips was actually dogs chewing through to the well-done remains of their predecessor.
The dogs looked up guiltily for a moment. Then over the screams they turned back to their task. We grabbed the dogs and pulled them away from the store of non-Christmas crap that had been stored on the closet floor and surveyed the damage. The box that had previously contained the cremains had been torn open, the cremains bag pulled out and gnawed on, but luckily Fred had been double-bagged and I did not have to clean cremains into my Dustbuster.