Riley turns from her skillet and pauses at the sight of my blanket cloak. She asks, “Another bad hair day, huh?”

“Some —ahem — something, like that,” I reply, still too early for good human talk.

Puzzled but satisfied, Riley pats a hand over an open barstool and turns to her skillet.

Climbing on the stool my modesty blanket is a challenge, but at least the labored panting isn’t coming from me, but instead, on the other side of the counter from a chubby corgi squatted between Riley’s legs. Just breathing seems to knock the wind out of this poor dog!

Funny, the way he’s scarfing down those burnt pieces of batter, the not-so-little furball almost looks like her puppy, Biscuit. Or at least what he would look like with an extra 10 pounds on him.