The dog ate the bread

We have a dog. He's a dog. He has done many things that are doggish and frustrating.

He has separation anxiety, so he poops on the carpet everytime we leave. If we leave the garbage where he can get at it, he'll find a poopy diaper in it and eat most of it and spread the remains hither and yon. And then I have to clean up hither and yon. (by the way, the little pieces of gel that go everywhere when a diaper explodes clean up way better with a broom and dustpan than to try to wipe it or soak it up or pick it up)

But he just did what was, in my opinion, the worst possible thing. He ate the bread.

Now this wasn't just any bread. This didn't come from a bag or a store. This was my daughter's fresh baked loaf of Italian bread, with onions and spices in it and freshly ground whole wheat. It was, possibly, the very best bread I've ever eaten in my entire life. Like the fresh bread they give you at Macaroni Grill, but way better, not needing butter or olive oil or anything. I could have eaten it and only it every day for the rest of my life. I had a bite, she had a bite, we took a bite to dad, and the dog ate the rest.

I'm not gonna kill him though.

Death is too good for him.