By the fourth inning, I’d completely lost track of the score. My golden retriever, Baxter, was having the time of his life at Bark at the Park night. His ears perked, tail wagging like a metronome, and nose twitching from all the new scents—he was in his element. People kept stopping to say hello, and Baxter greeted each one like an old friend.
I turned away for just a moment to grab a drink. When I looked back, there he was in the aisle—tail wagging proudly—with a hot dog hanging out of his mouth.
My heart sank.
Baxter had swiped it clean off the tray of the man sitting behind us. He looked incredibly pleased with himself, as if he’d just won the game.
I jumped up, flustered. “I am so sorry! I’ll replace it, I—”
But before I could finish, the man burst out laughing. Not annoyed at all—just genuinely amused.
“It’s fine,” he said, still chuckling. “Looks like he’s got great taste. I was almost done anyway.”
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