It seems that we’re all panting now, too exhausted to move. And so we lay there — Two sweaty women and their bread loaf shaped dog spread across the living room carpet. We exchange panting glances in momentary truce and agreement: Running around on a full stomach was a bad idea.

Riley stares up at the ceiling, catching her breath while cradling her pile of evidence. I crawl off the floor and strain to lift the wriggling dog up with me.

“So…everything is the same, huh? Then ‘care to explain why your ’puppy’ is so old?” I give him a jiggle, “And when did he get so fat?”

Riley’s gone pale, looking to her furry conspirator for an explanation. He pleads the fifth. “B-B-Biscuit’s my little chubster,” she cries, “He’ll always be a baby to me!”