So I come out of the kitchen on my crutches holding the last buttermilk biscuit of the batch that I baked yesterday.
Half way to the couch, I encounter Belle, who walks up to me, looking at the biscuit.
"No," I tell her, moving the biscuit behind my back. "Not yours."
Suddenly I feel the biscuit move in my hand. Murphy, who had come up behind me, took a bite out of it while I was fending off Belle.
Yeah, two hamsters woulda been a better choice, I'm thinking.