While discussing recipes with neighbor Robert, his 12 year-old fat dog exploded. Right there in the driveway, without warning. It combusted totally and cleanly with a sharp yelp and minor flash.
Most of the dog’s anatomy was vaporized but some teeth sprinkled down onto Robert’s windshield and part of the tail landed near me.
“Oh let me get that, I’ve got a glove,” Robert said, without missing a beat. His “glove” was his hand in an inside-out K*Mart shopping bag.
“That’s one of the pleasures of this breed,” he assured me, although I never could discern the dog’s particular pedigree. “Saves us the heartache of smothering it when it grows feeble.”