It's What's For Dinner

It was three days into the blizzard when Sarah decided to eat Max, her Labrador retriever.

She had come down to the cabin at Moose Lake for what she thought would be a simple weekend getaway, only to find herself snowed in with no food and only half a cord of firewood, and most of that had been used up by Saturday evening. She had planned on going to the grocery store and picking up a few things Saturday morning when the blizzard hit, with subzero temperatures and winds up to forty miles per hour. Sarah had never put much stock into the so-called "wind chill factor", but she was beginning to reassess this position. Even now, trapped inside the cabin surrounded by ten foot snow drifts, she could hear the relentless wind howling through the rafters and inside the chimney flue.

Sunday she'd eaten the last bit of food she could find in the sadly unstocked cabin pantry: an ancient can of Bush's Baked Beans. But that was Sunday. Now it was Monday night, and the last real meal she'd eaten had been the Friday before. She couldn't help glancing at Max sleeping near the fireplace hearth.

But that would be wrong, she thought to herself.

Especially since there's nothing in the way of sauce I could prepare to go with it, she continued to herself.

"Ah, screw it," she said out loud, either to the dog or herself.

"Come here, Max."