With a thunderous woof, General Bones, the sturdy German shepherd, rallied his troops around the central island of the suburban kitchen. Dogs of different breeds and sizes, from big mastiffs to tiny terriers, flocked to the makeshift command center, knocking over a few pots and pans in the process with resounding clatters.

“Barkington, you’re on vegetables. Scruffles, you take care of meat prep. And Piccolo? You are on desserts,” barked General Bones as he doled out assignments.

With the air of a seasoned military leader, General Bones had hoped to channel the spirit of adventure that Matthew Reilly-esque stories often held. If only the reality mirrored the vision.

Barkington, a burly bulldog, pawed at a heap of carrots and potatoes, sending them skittering across linoleum flooring. Scruffles—an eager Dalmation and the biggest among them—settled near the fridge, whose handle towered above his bobbing head.

At a nearby table, a pint-sized poodle named Piccolo tried to coax down a towering chocolate cake using a long broom. Weaving skillfully through the mayhem, a bulldog puppy named Squirt gamboled with a bag of bread, puncturing the plastic and leaving a trail of crumbs in his wake.

As the humble abode descended into what could only be called utter chaos, cleanser bottles crashed onto the floor, volleying rolls of paper towels into the air. Broiled chicken tumbled out of the fridge, cartwheeling onto the floor with a sizzling thwack, startling Piccolo, who yelped in surprise, sending the towering chocolate cake crashing down with aplomb.

Barkington tried to round up the vegetables, teetering on his hind legs as he pushed carrots and potatoes into a wayward saucepan with his snout. His efforts were largely in vain as the pan tipped over, sending more chaos into the scene.

General Bones surveyed the battlefield turned war-zone, still convinced of the nobility of their cause despite the unfolding disaster. Then, a series of unfortunate events cascaded with an intensity that amplified the roguish charm of their adventure.

First, the ill-fated saucepan Barkington knocked over had not been entirely empty; its steaming hot contents created an unholy skidmark across the floor. Unwittingly, Barkington slipped on it, causing a chain reaction of dogs skidding and slipping over each other. In the escalating pandemonium, a spatula was launched into the air, smacking the overhead light fitting which shuddered before fading to black, plunging the scene into eerie darkness.

Then, just as they thought it couldn’t get worse, the unmistakable sound of the owner’s approaching vehicle had every floppy ear perking up. The owners were home! The feast was nowhere near ready. Heck, it wasn’t even started!

“Abort, abort!” howled General Bones thoroughly upstaged by destiny’s cruel tricks. The ensuing chaos of the retreat was equal parts comedy and disaster as each dog proudly embraced their individual brand of mayhem.

Matthew Reilly would have been amused at the parody of his action-packed adventures, the kitchen a post-apocalyptic battlefield of uncooked food and curious doggies.

Yet, General Bones wasn’t entirely dejected. Even if it was a thoroughly botched operation, he had seen glimmers of potential. Therein laid the hope for future surprise feasts. And he, General Bones, held onto that hope. For he knew in his canine heart that every great adventure, even ones as epic in scale as Matthew Reilly’s, always started with a disaster. Or two.

And so as the door swung open and the owners’ faces fell to see their kitchen, he noted the mirth in their eyes dancing amidst the shock. Laughter erupted, reverberating around the chaos. And at the end of the day, wasn’t that the surprise they’d been going for anyway?