Use this one, please, despite what marker says--thanks!

Last week, my dog, Maggie, ate $140.

When I told this to my colleagues at work, they reacted predictably.

“What did she do, steal your standing rib roast?” someone asked.

“No, you idiot,” someone else said. “Tony is speaking metaphorically. He means her vet bills are eating up his money. Shots and stuff.”

Someone else guessed that Maggie damaged a neighbor’s property, and I had to pay.

For a while, I let the speculation continue. I was too embarrassed to elaborate. But eventually, I had to explain that Maggie, um, ate $140.

There was a respectful silence.

“In cash?”

No, I said. She accepted a promissory note with an assurance of adequate collateral.

Yes, in cash. A 50, four 20s and a couple of 5s.

It’s ridiculous that a dog would eat cash money. The purpose of a dog is to stand by the table and eat things you don’t want to eat--like succotash. Not United States currency.

“You must have accidentally rubbed it in meat,” Gino suggested.

Yeah, right. I frequently soak my wallet in giblet gravy.

“Had she ever done that before?” Gino asked.

I hadn’t thought of that.

“I mean, might she have been taking money out of your wallet?” Gino asked.

I considered this. Highly unlikely. She’s my dog, not my wife.

What happened was: I had been in New York for a few days, so I was carrying more cash than usual because in New York you’re always taking cabs. And I put my money clip, with $160 in bills, on the shelf in my bedroom where I always put it. Some hours later, I discovered Maggie in the den with a couple of torn bills by her feet--half of a $50 and the top left corner of a $5. She left me a $20, like a tip.

*

Dogs are not good at hiding their guilt. Maggie immediately assumed the stance commonly called the “submissive posture,” which is to say she looked as though she was trying to grind her way through the floor, butt first. This was particularly comical because Maggie is a Brittany spaniel, so she doesn’t have a tail to stick between her legs. She has only a stupid nub. It looks like a prune. It was trembling.

For the benefit of PETA and other concerned animal lovers, I should point out that I did not administer corporal punishment to Maggie. That’s because in my family, we respect the sanctity of life and the special dignity of all species--and because, just as I was about to skin Maggie alive with my Black & Decker orbital sander, my daughter walked in, so I had to stop.

Anyway, I went to the bank with the remains of the $50, hoping I could get a new one, since the serial number was intact on my half of the bill. But the teller told me I needed the whole “portrait” of the person on the bill, in this case, Ulysses S. Grant.

All I had on my half of the $50 was some hair and one ear.

There was no face. You couldn’t tell if he was Ulysses S. Grant or Hugh Grant.

“Money is indigestible,” Gino said. “She hasn’t barfed it up?”

No.

That only leaves one other way out.

Gino gave me a look. “Are you prepared to recover the money?”

Hmmmm. On the one hand, $140 is a lot of money. But do I want it on the one hand . . . and on the other hand, too?

So I am going to pass on this opportunity.

I asked a dog trainer why Maggie would eat money.

“The money smelled like you, so she ate it.”

Where’d she learn that, the Jeffrey Dahmer Obedience Academy?

“You had been away for a few days, and she missed you,” the trainer continued. “She found something that smelled like you, and it was glorious to her. It was her way of spending more quality time with Dad.”

Wouldn’t it be cheaper if we played Parcheesi together?

The trainer assured me that Maggie didn’t know she was eating money, and that she had no idea why I had gotten mad at her.

Anyway, the $140 is gone. I can’t get angry at Maggie for doing what she did--she acted out of love.

And with April 15 just around the corner, it has given me the greatest excuse imaginable.

Dear IRS: I’m sorry I am late with my taxes. My dog ate the money.