They were not my cookies.
But they were left unattended, which legally changes things.
The plate was on the coffee table. Not the counter. Not the fridge. The coffee table. That is a height chosen by humans who underestimate Shelties.
My human was by the tree again. Lights blinking. Music low. Thinking thoughts that make humans forget spatial awareness. I was on the rug, pretending to nap, but my nose was very awake.
The cookies smelled like butter and sugar and holidays. Real ingredients. The kind of cookies humans say are “for later,” which usually means “for now, if no one is watching.”
She picked one up. Took a bite. Smiled the way she does when the year finally loosens its grip a little. She set the cookie back down on the plate.
Back down.
I waited three seconds. That’s polite.
I stood up quietly. Very quietly. I am fluffy, not clumsy. I placed my front paws on the edge of the table and selected one cookie. Not the biggest. I have manners. I took it to the rug and ate it neatly.
It was excellent.
She didn’t notice right away. That happens when humans are feeling soft. I took another one. This time I ate it faster. Confidence grows with success.
Eventually she looked over and said, “Skye…”
That tone. Not angry. Suspicious. Fond.
I froze. Freezing is a classic technique. I swallowed. She counted the cookies. I did not interrupt.
She laughed. She always does when she realizes she helped create the situation. She moved the plate farther back on the table. Fair adjustment.
Later, she scratched behind my ears and said my name the forgiving way. The tree kept glowing. The room stayed warm.
Would I do it again?
If the cookies are on the coffee table?
Yes.
Merry Christmas
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