dog ate my homework blackberry ale

Dog Ate My Homework Blackberry Beer

This fruit-forward beer from brouwerij west is a worthy pick.

We can't decide what we adore most about Brouwerij West's latest beer release: what's inside the bottle, or what's on its outside.

The two-year-old Palos Verdes brewery debuted bottles of  Dog Ate My Homework ($8 for 17 ounces) last month. The beer is a twist on the company's popular Saison Extra, boosted with the addition of a pound of blackberries per liter during the beer's secondary fermentation.

Contrary to what you might expect, jamming in all that fruit doesn't result in a syrupy-sweet beer. Instead, both wine and beer lovers will likely find themselves impressed by its complexity. The tart blackberry juice lends a lingering tannic brightness, while the saison yeast emits earthy aromas of spice and funk.

It is a brew that smells and tastes remarkably like the start of summer.

This isn't the first time that brewer Brian Mercer has marched to the beat of their own kettledrum. The duo are known for recruiting local artists to design eye-catching beer labels, including this bubbly mosaic by Jacob Rolfe .

Mercer and Brown aren't bad at naming beers, either. After cracking open one bottle of Dog Ate My Homework, we started inventing excuses to get our hands on another.

Available at bottle shops such as Sunset Beer Co., Buzz Wine & Beer Shop, K&L Wines and Whole Foods Markets. 

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Brouwerij west 'dog ate my homework' blackberry ale beer 4-pack.

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• Vendor: Brouwerij West
• Availability: Out of stock
• SKU: 859809006078

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Saison / Farmhouse Ale | 7% ABV

Commercial Description:

A fresh, decidedly fruit-forward saison brewed with lots of Washington state blackberry juice. This beer is deep, deep red in color, but rather than being sweet like many fruit beers, it is dry, tart, and refreshing.

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• fruit beers
• berry taste

Too dry for me personally

I didn't expect this to be so dry like a wine and there is not really any sweetness to it to counterbalance that but if you like a true dry sour you will love this!

Another solid brew by these guys. Great blackberry flavor. Perfect for a hot summer day. Pucker up!

juicy goodness

the blackberry flavor in this is perfect! great pucker up beer!

Dog ate my homework is nicely done. Easy on the palate. Tart but not sour. Refreshing

Fruity Summer Beer

This is a fruity, tart beer. It is tart without being sour. Perfect for hot summer days!

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Dog Ate My Homework

Brouwerij West

Farmhouse Ale - Saison

Total ( ? ) 12,329

Unique ( ? ) 10,515

Monthly ( ? ) 8

9,268 Ratings

This beer has been deleted.

Beer Variants

Dog Ate My Homework With Kumquats

Another extremely limited variant of our super popular 'Dog Ate My Homework' A decidedly fruit-forward Saison, brewed with Washington State Blackberry… Read More

Another extremely limited variant of our super popular 'Dog Ate My Homework' A decidedly fruit-forward Saison, brewed with Washington State Blackberry juice - and for this version we added fresh Kumquats, which give it a juicy fruit punch-like quality. Only one keg produced. Read Less

Dog Ate My Homework With Vanilla Bean

An extremely limited variant of our super popular 'Dog Ate My Homework' A decidedly fruit-forward Saison, brewed with Washington State Blackberry juice… Read More

An extremely limited variant of our super popular 'Dog Ate My Homework' A decidedly fruit-forward Saison, brewed with Washington State Blackberry juice - and for this version we added Madagascar Vanilla Bean. Only one keg produced. The normally tart blackberry character gives way to a smooth and rounded vanilla finish. Read Less

Plum Saison

The Saison Base of 'Dog Ate My Homework' but with tart plum instead of blackberry.

The Saison Base of 'Dog Ate My Homework' but with tart plum instead of blackberry. Read Less

The Saison Base of 'Dog Ate My Homework' but without blackberry and instead dry-hopped with a single hop varietal.

The Saison Base of 'Dog Ate My Homework' but without blackberry and instead dry-hopped with a single hop varietal. Read Less

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SKU: 210000013714

Dog Ate My Homework Blackberry Ale 4pk

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The Best First Date Spots In LA

photo credit: Jakob Layman

Jess Basser Sanders, Brant Cox, Kat Hong & Brett Keating

September 10, 2021

Dating today is weird. Apps rule the romance world, and that’s probably not going to change unless the Apocalypse happens. Still, we remain staunch believers in the art of the first date (Lesson one: Don’t talk about Doomsday). You don’t have to take every open mic musician you match with to dinner, but if you want to make an impression and actually look like you give a damn about getting to know someone, an old-school first date is the way to go. Here’s how it’s done:

For starters, you need a place where you can hear each other. Nothing kills momentum more than having to scream “What??” after every question they ask you. Secondly, don’t go over the top. This is a real first date, not The Bachelor , so save the prix-fixe menus and helicopter rides for later. Casual always wins out. And lastly, be tasteful. This might seem obvious, but you need a place that proves you know what you’re doing, without overdoing it. You want sexy, not scene-y. Accessible, but not amateur. Still breathing? Good. Because this is where we come in. Here’s a list of LA’s best first date spots.

Fig Tree in Venice is great for almost any occasion. At this all-day cafe, you’ll sit in the sun, get swept up in the ocean breeze, and relax with either very special friends or complete strangers whom you hope to get a smooch from later. The expansive menu includes scallop aguachile, summer squash salads, burgers, grilled prawns, plus gelato for dessert, and a daily Happy Hour from 3-6pm. There are slushy cocktails, skin-contact wines, and plenty of draft beers (one of which is named Dog Ate My Homework blackberry ale).

Bar Bohemien

Sitting atop the Citizen Public Market is Bar Bohemian, an easy, breezy cocktail bar that’s great for both after-work drinks with coworkers and first dates. Ask fun, getting-to-know-you questions like “Where did you grow up?” or “Did you lie about being 6’5 on your profile?” while lounging on their walk-in-only patio. There’s plenty of space here, a mysterious art-deco décor, and drinks like the “Fire & Rain,” which combines mezcal, lavender bitters, and fresh lemon.

The Best LA Bars For A First Date

Arts District

Although Manuela, a Southern-ish restaurant in the Arts District, is housed in an actual gallery (and adjoining courtyard), the energy here is anything but stuffy. Their outdoor space is charming, looking more like a tiny European town than a converted Downtown warehouse parking lot. It’s so gorgeous, you might even say something like “my heavens” when you enter, even though you’ve literally never said anything like that before.

From the wall filled with bottles of California wines to the beautifully designed space and the Swinton-y name, Tilda is a wine bar/bottle shop that seems like it was custom-made for first dates. Cozy and compact, they make the most of their tight quarters, featuring a long list of natural wines, as well as plates made for sharing, like cheese boards, plates of charcuterie, and a tinned fish platter that comes with a crusty baguette, butter, and salsa verde that is, by far, the best thing on the menu. Although, upon reflection, a can of anchovies probably isn’t ideal for meeting someone for the first time.

Found Oyster

East Hollywood

Dating apps are unpredictable, so test the mysterious, uncharted waters at Found Oyster. Simply put, this is a great choice for a first date - the food comes out fairly quickly (if things start to get rocky), the space is cozy and non-pretentious, and they have one of the best seafood selections around (think littleneck clams and scallop-loaded tostadas). Plus, they’re located right next to that huge East Hollywood Scientology building, so at the very least, you’ll find out if that’s a part of their history and whether or not you need to enter Witness Protection immediately.

After a particularly rough experience where a one-night stand asked you to come over to their house and T-shirt model for their Depop store, you’re back on the proverbial dating horse. Get back in the saddle at Tsubaki. This izakaya in Echo Park is everything you want on a first date - it’s fun and low-commitment, and everything on the menu, from the trout crudo to the yakisoba and the chicken meatballs, is excellent, and generally costs around $8-20. Plus, they have one of the best sake selections in town - which is important when you’re getting to know the person across from you (namely, if they’re giving off a “Please T-shirt model for me” vibe).

The Best Restaurants & Bars In Echo Park

Oriel is basically Romance Central - if a meal here doesn’t get the gears turning on this potential relationship, you just might be the two least-compatible people on Earth. With a slightly hidden location under the Gold Line tracks, entering this dimly lit wine bar in Chinatown is like stepping into a New York film noir, or a scene from Chinatown . In addition, all of the French food at this casual date spot is fantastic (get the bavette steak), and the wine list is full of interesting and well-priced selections that will hopefully get those romance gears working harder and faster than Scarlett Johansson’s PR team.

This spot is Permanently Closed .

Located on the grounds of Yamashiro , in what can only be described as “a boulder,” Kensho is a tiny Japanese restaurant and sake bar that will make you look more like a put-together, Young Person of Taste, and less like a person who just cut open an empty tube of toothpaste in an effort to save money. And although Kensho is great at night, we almost like it more on weekend mornings, when you can really immerse yourself in the views of the Hollywood Hills and the excellent Japanese dishes they’re making that day.

Kensho Ryokan Is The New Arts District Hotel With Exciting Food

Gran Blanco

In the most rom-com moment of all time, after finding you on the brink of tears in the garage, your hot neighbor not only fixed your tires, but also asked you on date (we were going to say “But also fixed your heart,” but we couldn’t type that out without gagging). So be chill, and return the favor by taking them to Gran Blanco. This Westside bar/restaurant, located next to the Venice sign, is luckily nowhere near as cheesy as it may sound. Instead, the interior is bright and airy, and they serve delicious - and strong - cocktails, like the “Celery Southside,” which is made with gin. Plus, they’ve got one of the best burgers in LA . If that doesn’t say, “Thank you for saving me and also, maybe we should kiss a little,” we don’t know what does.

The Best Burgers In LA

Downtown LA

When all you want to do is grab your date by the shoulders and scream “I’M TRYING TO IMPRESS YOU” (Note: Please do not do this), take them to Mignon. This low-lit, almost-subterranean spot in DTLA is cozy and plenty romantic, and does the impossible - marries excellent French food at affordable prices. The menu is tight and compact (which means you’ll have more time to focus on making the recommended amount of eye contact), and includes a list of mostly natural European wines, and foods like buttery escargots à la Bourguignonne, a killer $24 steak, and a speck-and-butter sandwich so good, we’d consider ditching our date for it.

West Hollywood

Ronan is perfect for when you want to show your date that you have great taste, but aren’t high maintenance - and that you want to eat really good pizza. Located in West Hollywood, Ronan not only serves some of the best pies around (get the “Spicy Chomper” with soppressata), and the number-one burrata in town, they’re also a casual neighborhood spot, which means you’ll be perfectly at ease when they ask “So, why are you single?”

Esters Wine Shop & Bar

Santa Monica

Esters is a wine bar where you’ll never hear anyone use the word “mouthfeel,” which is exactly how we like it. It’s on a side street in Santa Monica, and is one of the best options in the neighborhood for a first date. Head to the patio, get a bottle, and order a couple of their insanely good grilled cheeses with ’nduja spread. They also have a whole selection of wine to take home, if it seems like the night might continue past dinner.

Augustine Wine Bar

Sherman Oaks

If the idea of a first date inside a wine bar in Sherman Oaks sounds like a nightmare, Augustine is here to prove you very wrong. This casual spot right on Ventura is the kind of place you walk into and mutter, “Wow, this is really cool” under your breath without even realizing it. The space isn’t big, but with a wrap-around bar, two-seater booths, and a front couch area, there are plenty of places to burrow in for the night. The bartenders will happily let you taste as many wines as you’d like until finding the one you want, and if you get hungry, there’s a solid menu full of cheese, charcuterie, and everything else that tastes good while drinking wine.

photo credit: Carla Choy

A massive Oaxacan restaurant in the South Bay, Madre is the ideal place for a first date that you’re not feeling too sure about. First, there’s a massive list of mezcal and tequila to help you get over your first-date-since-a-break-up jitters. There’s plenty of space between tables, so you won’t get side-eye from neighbors if things go south and you have to make up an excuse about your parakeet’s fear of being home alone. And if things go well, there are a whole bunch of great things to share here: queso fundido, pork ribs in mole, and tlayudas.

Same Same Thai

Silver Lake

Your friend is setting you up with a guy from her work because you “both LOVE music.” You have your doubts about how many conversations you’ll get out of that starting point, so it’s good to give yourself an out. Same Same, the wine bar/Thai restaurant in Silver Lake, is an excellent option. You can have a glass or two of wine at the bar, and if you find more in common than your mutual interest in records, you can move to a booth to share some very good, very spicy Thai food.

Beverly Grove

Marvin should be busier than it is, but we’re not going to complain, because this wine bar and restaurant has become one of our go-tos for first dates. The neighborhood spot in Beverly Grove has a great wine list and solid food (get the rigatoni Bolognese), and a space that feels welcoming, like a cool friend’s dining room. A visit to Marvin isn’t crazy expensive, either, so it’s an ideal choice if you don’t want to invest in a date with someone you suspect didn’t write that hilarious Tinder bio themselves.

Father's Office

Culver City

Dating in LA comes with several typical ice-breakers. Are you in the business? How bad is that Coachella lineup? Wait, you eat meat? If the answer to the last one is even remotely close to a yes, head to Father’s Office - because a burger is always what everyone wants. We’re choosing the Culver location due to its less frantic setting and ideal front patio.

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A fresh, decidedly fruit-forward saison, brewed with Washington State blackberries and black currants. This beer is deep red in color, but rather than being sweet like many fruit beers, Dog Ate My Homework is dry, tart, and refreshing.

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Where Did The Phrase “The Dog Ate My Homework” Come From?

Dogs are known as man’s best friend. Dogs keep us safe, are hard workers … and can provide a handy excuse in a pinch. Maybe that’s why versions of the classic expression the dog ate my homework have been around for hundreds of years.

Today, the dog ate my homework is used as a stock example of the kind of silly excuses schoolchildren give for why their work isn’t finished. Very rarely do people say, “the dog ate my homework” and expect it to be taken literally; they use the expression as an example of a typically flimsy excuse.

So where did the phrase come from?

Forrest Wickman, a writer for Slate , describes the legend of the 6th-century Saint Ciarán of Clonmacnoise as the alleged first recorded “the dog ate my homework” story. According to the tale, Saint Ciarán had a tame young fox that would take his writings to his master for him. One day, the fox grew up and decided to eat the leather strap binding the writings together instead. Still, this tale is more Garden-of-Eden parable and less terrible schoolchild excuse.

The notion that dogs will eat just about anything, including paper, turns up in lots of stories over the centuries. An example comes from The Humors of Whist , published in 1808 in Sporting Magazine . In the story, the players are sitting around playing cards when one of them remarks that their companion would have lost the game had the dog not eaten the losing card. Good boy.

Some attribute the creation of the dog ate my homework to a joke that was going around at the beginning of the 20th century. In a tale found as far back as an 1894 memoir by Anglican priest Samuel Reynolds Hole, a preacher gives a shortened version of a sermon because a dog got into his study and ate some of the pages he had written. However, the clerk loved it because they had been wanting the preacher to shorten his sermons for years.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary , the first example of the dog ate my homework excuse in print can be found in a speech given by retiring headmaster James Bewsher in 1929 and published in the Manchester Guardian : “It is a long time since I have had the excuse about the dog tearing up the arithmetic homework.” The way this comment is phrased suggests that the whole dog ate my homework story had been around for some time before it was put in print.

When was the word homework created?

But in order for a dog to eat homework specifically, homework had to be invented (oh, and how we wish it hadn’t been). True, the word homework , as in what we call today housework , appears as early as 1653. But homework , as in school exercises to be done at home, isn’t found until 1852. Once we had homework , it was only a matter of time before the dog was accused of eating it.

How we use this phrase now

No matter the origin, sometime in the 1950s, the expression became set as the dog ate my homework . This inspired any number of riffs on the theme, like my cow ate my homework or my brother ate my homework . In the 1960s, the dog ate my homework continued to gain popularity. The expression popped up a couple times in politics over the years, like when President Reagan said to reporters in 1988, “I had hoped that we had marked the end of the ‘dog-ate-my-homework’ era of Congressional budgetry … but it was not to be.”

It seems unlikely that the dog ate my homework was ever used consistently or frequently by actual schoolchildren. In fact, it’s the unlikeliness of the story that makes it so funny and absurd as a joke. Instead, teachers and authority figures appear to have cited the dog ate my homework many times over the years as such a bad excuse they can’t believe students are really using it.

In the 21st century, students don’t spend as much time working with physical pen and paper as they once did. That may contribute to the decline in the use of the phrase. So, maybe soon we’ll see a new equally absurd phrase pop up. Come on Zoomers, you’ve got this.

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April 18, 2014

Contemporary Fiction , Education

The Dog Ate My Homework

It seemed like the most plausible excuse at the time: blame the new dog for eating up my now overdue essay. But then I just had to embellish...

Karen Donley-Hayes

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The fact of the matter was, I didn’t have anyone else to blame. So I blamed Roscoe–perhaps ill-advised, him being my father’s K-9 partner-in-waiting, but I had completely forgotten my homework. I wasn’t in the habit of lying or putting blame where it didn’t belong, but I was caught off guard–daydreaming about Roscoe, in fact. My third grade teacher now loomed over my desk, expectant, her hand outstretched, fingers wiggling. And in my deer-in-the-headlights stare, with Miss Underwood frowning down at me, the words blurted out all on their own.

“Roscoe ate it.”

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“What?” Miss Underwood scowled more, if that were possible. She planted her fists against her ample hips and leaned in, hovering over me.

I blinked, swallowed a spitless lump in my throat, and having already lied, promptly repeated myself. “Roscoe ate it,” I said with slightly more conviction.

Miss Underwood stood stiff, smack dab in front of my desk, so close I should have been able to smell the little flowers on her dress. I had an overpowering impulse to move away from her, but my chair shackled me to the spot. I stared at the vibrant gladiola sprouting out from beneath Miss Underwood’s belt, and felt the entire class’s attention span shake from all else and swoop down on me.

“Mister Pike. You are not lying to me, are you?” It was more a challenge than a question.

Miss Underwood absolutely terrified me–almost as much as did the prospect of acquiring the entire class’s ridicule or getting caught in a bald-faced lie–and such terror can be a remarkable survival mechanism, because my brain spun a web and my mouth spewed it out without so much as consulting with me. I sat, breathless and rapt with the rest of the class, listening to this story unfold.

“Oh, no ma’am,” a voice–my voice–poured out of me, my brain, frenetic, only barely keeping a syllable ahead of my mouth. “I wrote my report on the metamorphosis of tadpoles into frogs,” I heard. (It was a good thing I had recently become fascinated by this amphibious process and had not only been reading about it but observing it in the natural setting of our backyard.) “And I took the paper with me to the pond so that I could look at them and draw pictures to show the stages, and Roscoe came with me, and I had a tadpole on the top of the paper so I could trace it and Roscoe saw it and before I knew what happened he jumped on it and swallowed it whole, and the paper.”

I shifted my bug-eyed gaze up the floral landscape to the teacher’s face. Miss Underwood remained completely still.

“And the rock that I had holding the paper down,” my voice said. Her eye twitched, barely perceptible. “And the pencil I was using.” Her brows drew closer together. “And then it was dark, and I couldn’t draw them again, and then I had to do my chores and it was time for bed.”

Miss Underwood frowned, unwedged one hand from her hip and pointed at my chest. “You’d better be sure to get that dog to the vet, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I nodded vigorously. “We’re taking him this afternoon.”

“Good,” she said. “And re-write your report and bring it in tomorrow. Along with a report on how Roscoe did at the vet’s.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and wondered if the pittance I had in the Mason jar under my bed could buy me a plane, train, or boat ticket anywhere else in the world.

That afternoon, when I slouched from the school bus, Roscoe careened down the driveway to meet me, his half-grown legs all knobs and paws flying indiscriminately; he seemed none the worse for wear for his “misadventure” of the day before. I trudged up the driveway, the pup orbiting around me, bounding and panting, pausing only to wolf down my mother’s lone remaining gladiola. While my reporting of late had been very light on honesty, there was truth to the fact that Roscoe was a one-canine mauling, gulping, devouring, completely-nondiscriminatory eating machine. The gladiolas, much to my mother’s dismay, had vanished into his maw during a single galumphing frenzy; this was shortly after Roscoe had discovered the infinite wonders that the frog pond in the backyard held. Mom had admonished my father to restrain the dog. Dad had testified that socialization was critical to Roscoe’s mental development and future as a police dog. Mom declared her flowers unfair casualties. Dad promised to build a fence for her gardens (a moot point, as Roscoe had already decimated them).

The sound of my mother’s footsteps on the porch drew my attention; I looked up to see Roscoe gleefully caprioling by her side. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and was staring at me with an expression that immediately made me slow my already lethargic trudge.

“I hear Roscoe ate your homework,” she said. There was no tone of accusation or belief–or even disbelief, for that matter–just a simple statement. I stopped and looked up at her, and for two ticks of a heartbeat I was on the verge of coming clean. I steeled myself to admit my lie, to face the consequences, and to be a better man for it. During those two ticks of a heartbeat, Roscoe splayed himself on the porch and latched onto one of the banister posts, gnawing and grunting.

“Yes ma’am,” I said, and felt the heat rise under my collar as I lied to my own mother. I looked intently at Roscoe (who supported my story with his every action) to avoid looking in my mother’s eyes. I heard her sigh.

“Well, alright then. I called Dr. Brown’s office as soon as Miss Underwood phoned me, so let’s get things together and get going. Hopefully, he’ll be fine; it’s that rock I’m worried about.”

I nodded and walked up the porch steps, head down and ashamed, and slipped past my mother, past the squirming, euphoric mass of German shepherd enthusiasm. My mother stayed on the porch while I dropped my book bag on the kitchen table. Roscoe leapt up, flung himself against her legs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her reach down idly and rub his head. He gazed up at her adoringly, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, wood splinters flecking his lips; his tailed swished nonstop across the porch.

“Maybe the paper and rock and all just went right through him,” I said, and hoped that if a dog actually were to eat a paper and a rock, they might actually move right along. Otherwise, I was going to be busted when the vet checked the dog out and declared him devoid of foreign objects. Not that I wanted him to have a problem; I didn’t, but his clean bill of health was my sentence. Granted, it was of my own making.

“I hope so,” Mom’s voice came in from the porch. I heard her add, under her breath, “Roscoe, you’re going to be the death of me if you live long enough.”

In the vet’s waiting room, I studiously worked on my tadpole-to-frog report, shielding it from Roscoe, who my mother worked up a sweat restraining. And when it was finally his turn to go in and be examined, and I was left with silence and the weight of my own guilt, I could barely remember the details of amphibian metamorphosis, much less write about them. Mom, quiet, read a paperback. The clock on the wall ticked off five minutes, 10, 15; the smell of the waiting room mixed with the odor of wet dog, cat pee, and rodent cage litter, and I began to feel nauseous.

“How’s your paper coming?” Mom asked. I shrugged. I sweated.

I was nearly to the point of breaking down and admitting my guilt, or at least bolting from the waiting room and into the parking lot, when Dr. Brown summoned us. Mom clutched her purse, and I drooped behind her, a condemned man going to the gallows. The vet brought us into the execution chamber, and closed the door. The harsh florescent lights gleamed, ruthless and all-seeing. Roscoe was not in the room to witness my punishment.

Dr. Brown cleared his throat. I felt a prickling thrill of sweat, and stared fixedly at the poster of canine parasites on the wall. “Well, we took x-rays of Roscoe, and we don’t see your rock or your paper.”

I couldn’t help a fleeting glance at the vet; he met my eyes for a beat, then looked over at Mom. “But it’s a good thing you brought him in, because we did see something else.”

I blinked, confused.

“Oh?” my mother said.

Dr. Brown turned his back to us, popped a thick sheet of film against a panel, and turned on the light behind it. Ribs and spine and gray masses flickered to light. Dr. Brown glanced over his shoulder toward us. Both Mom and I leaned toward the glowing image. Dr. Brown cleared his throat again and pointed to something in the middle of the picture. I looked closer, squinted, and then with a sting of recognition, I understood the image on the screen. My mother realized at the same time, and she chuffed, glancing sidelong at me.

“This,” Dr. Brown said, tapping the image of my G.I. Joe, recently MIA, “needs to come out. And it won’t come out the easy way like that rock did,” he glanced down at me again. “It will snag other things he swallows, and you’re going to have a bad emergency situation, maybe a dead dog.”

My mother reached for the collar of her blouse, pressed her hand flat. “Oh, no. Oh, poor Roscoe!”

My skin prickled again, but I wasn’t worried about my guilt and punishment anymore. “Will he be okay?” My voice sounded tiny and tremulous. “He won’t really die, will he?”

Dr. Brown smiled then. “No, I think we got him in time. We’ll put him on the surgery schedule for the morning, and he should be right as rain in a month’s time.” He reached a hand out and ruffled my hair. I realized I was crying. “In a way, it’s a good thing he ate your homework, otherwise you might not have found out about this until it was too late.”

I looked up at him lamely.

That weekend, Dad fenced off what was left of Mom’s gardens, I patrolled the entire house and yard and commandeered all swallowable objects (and even some that didn’t seem swallowable), and my folks and I discussed the new obedience regimen for Roscoe. When he came home a few days later, belly shaved but none-the-worse for wear, I doted on him and chaperoned him vigilantly. After a short period of gorging withdrawal, Roscoe adjusted gleefully to his obedience training, and was already ahead of the learning curve when he officially entered his police-dog training.

I was too ashamed to ever admit to my parents my panic-induced homework fabrication. I like to think that the guilt and anxiety I experienced for that long afternoon was punishment enough, and sometimes, I also like to think that it was all part of the plan for Roscoe’s long and decorated life. I like to think that, but I don’t believe it much more than Miss Underwood believed me.

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