I wished I had thumbs so I could help Mom carry stuff. I was a lot younger then, like only one. A lot has changed since then. I've recently decided I should stop coveting thumbs. Like just yesterday I decided. Dad has thumbs and it didn't help him cook.
Now, Dad's a pretty good cook. I love, love, love it when he cooks eggs. Eggs are good, well, maybe not as good as steak, but good. Getting steak in this house just became problematic.
Dad's also a good bread baker. Mom and I talk about this sometimes when I'm in her office begging for snackies. She tells me I had bites of bread and that's all I get until morning. I do not like this but I'm a good boy and I listen.
Soooo, Dad was making something called pita pockets. They are de-lish, for the record. He used his favorite skillet, the one he sears steaks in, for his project. He also used a rubber spatula in a hot skillet.
And this is why there will be no steak fat for the dog, a.k.a. ME, in the foreseeable future.
This is cruel and unusual punishment. I protest!