What's in your bra?

The other night Shem, Libby, Graham Cracker, and I were eating pork chops. These were fatter-than-normal pork chops which turned out to be a little difficult to chew. Shem dutifully cut Graham Cracker's meat up into bite-sized pieces. She had a plate full of meat and rice. A bit later I noticed that, like a little kid trying to hide something, she'd assess the three of us then put her hands in her lap. I watched her for a few minutes, noticing, too, that she didn't have any meat on her plate. I casually looked under the table, which she noticed. She suddenly brought her legs together, admonishing me for looking at her. She then spun around in her chair, sitting with her back to us. I murmured to Shem, "What's she doing?" He looked over her shoulder, "She's stuffing meat in her bra." He asked her, "What are you doing?" She turned back around with a very guilty look on her face. "Bev, you ruined everything. I couldn't eat this and thought I'd give it to the dogs." She then presented a napkin full of meat that she'd stuffed into her bra. Shem (for the 9,681st time) told her we don't feed the dogs anything but dog food and to put it in the trash. She tried to argue, but realized the three of us weren't going to let her get by with it and gave it to me to put in the trash.

She taunted Beanie last night and, again, almost got him to bite her. She blows in his face, pulls on his tail, messes with food he has in his mouth, and it pisses him off so he snaps at her. She then comments, "He's the weirdest dog."

I guess it takes one to know one.