For many weeks now, Adam has been growing tomatoes in our backyard. He used to grow tomatoes professionally, organic heirloom varieties for some of the major restaurants in Chicago. He's been working on an similar organic heirloom tomato this year, and while many of the tomatoes grew from the six or so plants we have, they haven't been ripening.

Until now. One tomato has persevered, turned bright pink, and given hope to both the remainder of its unfinished brethren, and to Adam. He was overjoyed, and made sure that I would check the tomatoes while he's away in Pittsburgh this weekend.

Tonight, while I was reading and Adam was playing Super Mario Galaxy like the compulsive freak/Super Mario addict that he is, our dog Stout started chewing on his paw. I addressed him directly, as I often do to him, our cat, and any particular inanimate object in my viewing path.

"Stout," I asked hypothetically. "Why do you do that? Why do you chew on your paw? Are you stressed or something?"

By way of an answer, Stout got up, hopped up on the couch and stuck his face firmly in Adam's lap. I then heard a horrible heave, saw Adam simultaneously jump back and shove Stout's head out of the way, and witnessed my dog projectile vomit all over the couch.

Adam and I went into detective mode: "Did Ron feed him stew or something today?" "No, no, it's not entirely chunky enough for stew." "But it does seem to have elements of fresh vegetables in it, does it not?"

At that point, I think Adam knew. I think he knew before he actually knelt down to get a better look at the evidence. The tomato was gone. Stout had eaten it, and then backed it all up.

There's something almost sadistic about it - eating a man's tomato and then deliberately attempting to regurgitate it in his lap. Adam was heartbroken ("A lot went into that tomato!"), but Stout took it in stride. He was in the kitchen eating the cat's food in no time.