We always have a tin of chocolates stored beneath the tree in our front room at Christmas. On the morning of the 27th Dec, I came downstairs to find the lid slid to one side and the tin empty. Hmm. There had been a good handful of chocolates left when I retired to bed last night. I turned to Bollo who immediately averted his gaze to the stairs. Ahhh! Had someone snuck downstairs and grabbed a midnight treat? But why leave the tin there, lid open and all? I checked the bin for wrappers: nothing. Why dispose of them? It was all very perplexing.
Later, I grilled hubby and daughter who denied the allegations profusely. We all focused on Bollo. Surely not? At this point I should add that there are several things you should know about Bollo: he’s fun loving, friendly, a water baby, and loves to play. But food is the overriding aspect in his life. He lies under the table when we eat dinner, sits at our feet when we snack and can hear a ‘crunch’ from the far end of the garden and come running. But he’s never pinched food. Until now.
When we’d recovered from our fits of giggles, reality set in. I’d read somewhere that chocolate was toxic to dogs. I pressed my hand to my chest. Should I take him to vets? Hubby checked the garden – he hadn’t been sick. And he certainly didn’t look poorly, bounding around the room, revelling in the fun and frivolity. Eventually, I resolved that as he weighs around 36 kilos, the blood would flush away the toxins. No damage done. We had a busy day ahead, so I pushed it to the back of my mind. But one thought kept picking at my brain – what had he done with the wrappers?
That evening we sat curled around the fire, watching a film together. Bollo eventually retreated from hogging the fire and lay at our feet to sleep. It was warm, relaxed, the dancing flames lit up the darkness. Then we heard it – a tiny squeak. I sat forward, looked down. Bollo was out cold. “He must be dreaming”, my daughter said, and we all moved back to the film.
Moments later a stale aroma filled the room. We wafted hands at curled noses. “Bad dog,” my husband said. Bollo opened his eyes, lifted his head, looked across at us slightly perplexed as if to say, “It wasn’t me”, and moved away to the other side of the room. We settled back down.
Then, another gentle squeal, followed by a ‘ping’. I sat forward, “What was that?” My daughter switched the light on, followed the noise, but couldn’t find anything. Just as she was about the switch it off, we heard it again. Louder this time. A definite ‘ping’. Bollo jumped up and stared at his rear end.
We all moved over to him, holding our noses. A pink screwed up piece of foil sat beneath the radiator. My daughter picked it up. We looked at one another. Then I spotted a yellow one. It was scrunched tightly, but there was no doubt what it was. No fading in the colouration – a fact pointed out starkly by my young scientist.
Over the next couple of days I collected several chocolate wrappers scattered around my front room – indelible evidence of the crime committed. Think I’ll place that chocolate tin up high next year.