A Missing Sandwich

There are moments in a man’s life when he’s sure he’s achieved greatness. Some folks climb mountains, others write symphonies.

Me? I made the perfect sandwich.

I’m talking masterpiece-level perfection here. Balanced, layered, and beautiful.

Fresh sourdough, toasted just enough to whisper when you bite into it. Roast beef piled high, four pieces of bacon, two slices of pepper jack cheese, three slices of tomato so red it could’ve modeled for a seed catalog, and a thin spread of Jalapeno mustard to make it feel fancy.

I even went the extra mile. I washed the lettuce.

Now, when you’re staring down a sandwich like that, the world fades away. There’s a golden silence, like angels holding their breath.

I plated it with reverence and stepped back to admire the craftsmanship. It was, if I may say so, a thing of beauty.

Then I made my fatal mistake.

I turned around, just for five seconds, to grab a drink from the fridge. Five seconds.

That’s it. I wasn’t gone long enough for the ice maker to finish a cube.

When I turned back, my plate was empty. Gone, vanished, not even a crumb remaining.

At first, I thought I’d lost my mind. Maybe I’d already eaten it and just forgot?

But no, there, sitting beside the plate, was Buddy. My faithful companion, and the very picture of innocence, except for one small detail: he was licking his lips.

“Buddy,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Did you eat my sandwich?”

He blinked. Then, with the composure of a man falsely accused, he yawned, stretched, and looked away.

If dogs could whistle, he would’ve done that too.

Now, I’ve known Buddy for over nine years. I’ve seen him fake injuries for treats, pretend to bury toys he later stashed under the couch, and once, memorably, act like he didn’t know where the missing sock went while sitting squarely on it.

He’s clever. Charming, even.

But innocent? Not a chance.

I started gathering evidence like a detective in a low-stakes crime drama. The plate was spotless, polished to a shine.

Not a single crumb. That’s not natural.

No human eats that clean. And then I spotted it, off to the side, on the kitchen floor, a single piece of lettuce.

The smoking gun.

I held it up like a badge. “Aha!” I declared. “Care to explain this, Buddy?”

He gave me a look that said, “Lettuce? Never seen it before in my life,” before he sauntered off toward the living room, tail wagging like he’d just closed the case himself.

I sighed. I wasn’t mad, exactly.

You can’t really stay mad at someone who looks like a cloud with eyes. But I did feel a little betrayed.

That sandwich was supposed to be my moment of triumph. My culinary victory lap.

Instead, I got five seconds of glory and a lettuce leaf.

Later, as I made myself a far less impressive peanut butter and jelly, Buddy flopped down beside me, resting his head on my lap like nothing had happened. His stomach gurgled contentedly.

“Enjoy your lunch, huh?” I muttered.

He thumped his tail once, slow and satisfied.

And I had to laugh, because that’s life with Buddy, part crime, part comedy, all heart. You can’t take yourself too seriously when being outwitted by a dog.

Especially one who leaves behind the evidence himself, like a calling card.