As I entered the kitchen this morning, I was greeted by the sight of blood… a little trail of it. My immediate thought was “Oh no, Bailey’s hurt!” (Bailey’s our foster dog.) But there she was, sitting in her little bed, wagging her tail all cutesy-wutesy and her brown eyes all wide and innocent.


Then I spied a bag in the centre of the kitchen. I picked it up to find an extremely large puddle of blood underneath it, and the bag filled with thawed meat. My body went into convulsions as I struggled to keep down the remnants of the previous night’s lasagne.


I soaked most of it up with paper towels, but since my mornings are perfectly allotted for time (ten minutes for make-up, ten for breakfast, ten for hair, 3 for making up bed, etc.), I covered the blood and left the rest of it for someone else.


When Jagerbomb woke up, I told her what happened and we tried to figure out the mystery. Then, as I was straightening my hair, I heard a loud curse from downstairs.




Once again, we found a bag with a steak in it, smack dab in the middle of the living room. Then, to our horror, we noticed another steak, all red and juicy with dog hair clinging to it, curled up in the corner of the couch like it just moved in and decided to take over. MY couch. My only GOOD couch.


It was like walking into an Alfred Hitchcock movie.


The problem is we don’t know who to blame. Was it:

A) Bailey the foster dog, opening the freezer and extracting her favourite meat? But if so, why was the meat uneaten?


B) Bailey the foster dog, snatching the meat from atop the counter where someone had left it to thaw? But who really thaws out a large bag of meat and another one filled with two steaks?


C) Someone with an unholy grudge against the members of my household? Perhaps the tenants downstairs who have already called the police on us before, and figure this is a more interesting way of getting revenge on our noisy behaviour?


The world may never know, but our house smells like a butcher’s shop.