Coffee Shop, Rottweiler, and Pen

Crunch, crunch, crunch, crack, crunch, crunch. I look up from making a woman a 16 oz double shot vanilla latte to see the puppy chewing on a piece of rawhide. I smile, thankful he's not causing the other customers trouble and turn back to steaming milk.
The woman grins at me, "How old is he?"
I'm beginning to think I never get asked interesting questions in this coffee shop. "Five months and a couple weeks."
I'm also beginning to think there are no original things to say back. She grins, "He's so good for a baby."
My mind flashes back to the entropy forty minutes before. The sounds of wood shrieking across concrete and fur flying each way. Of a garbage can being tipped over by the two most "innocent" creatures on the planet.
"Yes," I nod, "Most of the time."
I finish the latte, "Sixteen ounce vanilla latte, four sixteen (made up number since I don't know how to calculate tax without a cash register)."
"Thank you," She snaps the white lid onto the cup with the logo of our coffee shop (a rottweiler) and sits down at one of the square black tables.
 Moses, noticing the customer isn't at the counter, walks over, and sits down. His tail pulses back and forth with vigor.
"No."  I turn to the sink to rinse the pitcher and glass. The woman turns to look at him, he looks forlornly back, and wags his tail once.
"What's he want?" She asked watching him curiously.
"A treat." As I say it Moses' ears perk up, he looks up at me, his eye brighten, and his tail springs back into the action. The woman gurggles as she tries not to laugh.
"He's got it down to a science doesn't he?" The woman asks after she's finished swallowing the large gulp of coffee.
Moses' ears go back as he realizes I am still not reaching for the treat jar.
I shake my head in agreement as I wipe the counter, "It is hard not to give in."
Then the pouting begins, imagine the cutest two year old in the word. Yes the one with the perfect cherubic face, dimples, and ringlet, and he/she (because really sometimes you cant tell with toddlers) is pouting at you. Begging for a cookie. Now imagine it ten thousand times worse.

I want the treat! Give them to me!

A large exasperated sigh escapes Moses' lungs and he slowly lays down with extended movements. His little eyes stare up at me sadly with the look of the Pound Puppy toys. His head resting on his paws.
I ignore him.
After a few minutes he realizes  this is not enough of an act to bother me. He then mopes all the way to the couch and steps up onto it instead of jumping, plopping himself down and gives me a withering stare.
The woman continues to smile as she finishes her coffee. She tosses the cup into the trash, pets Mo, then turns to leave.
Moses continues to let me have the stare. I continue to wipe up the counter.
I soon hear the crunching again and feel thankful Moses is done sending me down the guilt trip of doom. I stop cleaning to turn around and thank him. I stop and I am slowly filled with disbelief. Somehow the puppy had gotten hold of one of the pens.
An evil glint bounces off his eyes, pay back.
I hear the crunch just before I yell, "NO!"
Luckily it was a dried up pen, I didn't know that but luckily it was. I took the pen from his mouth happy it hadn't exploded. I throw it into one of our cream colored trash cans, and turn to glare at the dog.
He wags his tail.
I remember glares don't work on puppies.

Pouting? I'm not pouting.