I don’t know how it happened, but you need to know: the cookies you baked, warm, delicious chocolate-chip cookies, the good kind, the kind you make with real butter so they flatten out instead of pillow up like mushrooms. I dislike mushrooms. You know, I’ve always struggled with temptation, and when I’m faced with it, well, what can I do but give in quickly so as to get it over with to relieve the agony and start again to be strong, which I’m not, but this time, this time I resisted the wonderful aroma as the cookies rested there on the cooling rack, the one you leave out on the counter, and sometimes I pick at the crumbs that have fallen through the wire rack to the counter. Even cold, small, crusted chocolate chips are tasty. I cherish them, I tell you, I do. But I didn’t eat the cookies. I don’t know who did, or what happened to them. I know that is more trust than I may deserve, but you must believe me. I think, maybe, the dog did it. He’s been off his game all morning. Isn’t chocolate supposed to be poisonous for dogs, but he craves it like I do?