I'm fixing my usual summer breakfast. Whole grain toast with peanut butter. Standing at the counter, my mind on the million things that fill it on a morning at the end of summer and the beginning of a new school year.
Toby is sitting quietly, expectantly, and eagerly behind me, as he usually does. He likes peanut butter. Once, maybe twice, (alright, maybe more than that) I've globbed some on my finger and given him a taste at the end of my toast-preparing routine. I love seeing his happy face and I'm entertained by what his tongue does with the peanut goo.
This morning I'm so lost in my thoughts that I screw the lid back on the peanut butter jar without getting a glob for Toby and turn around to cross the kitchen and put it away. I've completely forgotten that he's sitting there and almost run into him.
His golden eyes are beaming hope at my face. He's in a perfect sit position and his tail sweeps the floor, sending tumbleweeds of his fur scurrying for the corners. One long string of drool travels from the corner of his mouth to my kitchen floor - unbroken, thick, viscous. A pool forms at Toby's feet, even before the drool detaches itself from his lips. I reopen the peanut butter jar as he scoots forward over the puddle.