He had an uncanny knack for breaking into things. 

The oven where we hid the box of pizza. 

The cabinet where we hid the baking supplies. 

The dishwasher not yet full enough to be run but filled with just enough dirty plates to be tempting.

The closet where we hid the kitchen garbage. 

My office where I kept an office garbage can. 

The bathroom garbage can (until I found one that we could mount to the wall). 

Over nearly 13 years, his exploits resulted in so many gastronomic conquests I lost count somewhere. I can offer just this small (only moderately exaggerated) sampling:   

Two entire bags of brown sugar – one before we realized we needed to lock the cabinet and one after he’d figured out how to get around the locking mechanism.

Three American girl doll feet and one hand. 

Four dog beds, two of which he shared with his sister. 

Countless freshly grilled hot dogs and hamburgers “rescued” from small children’s hands during backyard birthday party shenanigans.

Several dozen fresh-baked cookies left to cool on a rack on the counter. 

Roughly 112 slices of cheese.

Approximately 1,377 slices of pizza, give or take a few hundred. 

The remnants of at least 219 jars of peanut butter. 

At least 8,453 sticks of butter placed too close to the counter’s edge. 

Dozens of treats from gullible visitors who fell for those velvet ears, soulful eyes, and “I’m so pitiful. Can’t you tell they never feed me?” act.

I don’t know what lies on the other side of that rainbow bridge. I can only hope it’s filled with stinky garbage cans and one heck of a food budget.