That's the look of a dog outside the kitchen who knows there's cooking going on inside.
Tonight's dinner turned out awful, right down to the dish broken in the sink when the jar I was trying to open fell on it. I have time to eat or I have time to cook, not both. The only good part was chopping up the overcooked hunk of meat in my new mini food processor, meaning the processor worked well and the meat tasted just as awful as before the chopping. (After over-cooking it, I had ideas about shredded beef and sauce but there was nothing, absolutely nothing, with which to make strongly flavored glop to put over the meat; and I did not intend to mix it with a can of chili because my son and I ate chili yesterday or maybe it was the day before.)
I started making cornbread and discovered I had polenta-type ground corn, not cornbread type. I made crunchy cornbread. The chickens and parrots will love it.
While Alanis barked at the back door, Miro stopped in front of the window to tell me to let him in. Instead of letting him in, I did what any sensible person would do--let the food burn and run for the mobile phone camera. In the photo he's up on his hind legs behind the sign that lets all wanderers know there are Airedales (ADT's) in the house, as if he's saying,"I don't care what you did to it; I'll eat it."
With dogs in the house, you never really cook a bad meal.