A bunch of us guys used to spend a winter weekend at George's cabin on a lake in Maine. George is a great cook and baker. The other guys all had either culinary or mixology talents. Then there was me. I decided to try and bring something I made, so I got a recipe for Bourbon Hot Dogs from Parade magazine.
When it was time to eat the dogs, we couldn't find them. George had transferred them to another pot, and left the empty pot on the floor, making it appear that his bassett hound, Chatham, had eaten all two pounds of sausages. Chatham was a bit of a sausage herself and so this turn of events was credible, but it had us really worried about what would happen to the dog.
Turns out, this was all a prank, and George eventually produced the hot dogs. Too bad for us! They were terrible, and I've never lived it down.
We put some bourbon to better use that weekend, sans frankfurters.