It was supposed to be the best day of the week—Pizza Crust Friday. The sacred tradition. The holy grail of snacks. Every Friday evening, the humans ordered a big, cheesy pizza, and just as they finished their slices, the real fun began: handing out the leftover crusts to the furry members of the family.
Chooch and CiCi usually go wild the moment that delivery box hits the table. The smells, the sound of the box opening—it’s enough to get tails wagging and eyes sparkling. But today? Today was different.
The pizza arrived, hot and glorious, steam rising as it was unboxed. I looked at Chooch. He didn’t even lift his head from the couch cushion. CiCi? She was busy playing with a squeaky toy, totally ignoring the sacred smell drifting through the house.
I couldn’t believe it. “HELLO?! It’s Pizza Crust Friday!” I said, holding up a golden, crunchy end piece like it was a treasure. Nothing. No excited barks, no drool puddles, no frantic paw taps.
I waved it dramatically. “This is the crust! The crust, you guys!”
Still nothing. CiCi just rolled over and sighed, like I was bothering her nap. Chooch blinked slowly, then closed his eyes again. My heart broke a little. Was the magic gone? Were we… moving on?
Desperate, I crinkled the box. That usually does the trick. Chooch’s ears twitched slightly. A glimmer of hope! I tore off another piece of crust and waved it closer. “Look, it’s got cheese on it!”
Finally, CiCi stood up, sniffed the air—and casually walked past me to get a sip of water.
At that moment, I realized something painful: they weren’t ignoring the crust. They were just full. They’d already snagged sneaky bites while I was distracted with the soda. The betrayal!
So there I sat, holding the last piece of crust, feeling dramatic and abandoned. They don’t even care that it’s Pizza Crust Friday 😫. But don’t worry—I ate the crust myself. For the tradition. For honor. For the dogs who used to care.
