What does it take to get a decent bagel around here?

Ok, so I'm from the South, and don't know a bagel from a bialy. In theory.

Truth is, I've been salivating for a bagel for two whole days, and I knew exactly where to find one: deep inside a snowbank next to Morses Pond.

I first sniffed it out when I was down there with Dad, who grew wise to my game. Then this morning, during the storm, I tried to drag Mom down the steep hill to the pond. Steep for her, that is.

"Tucker," she said as I weathervaned myself in the right direction. "I'm not going down there. It's too icy." When she tempted me with a treat, I lost my willpower and gave in.

Tried again tonight. I moped around until someone noticed. Once again dragging Mom in my wake, I faked like I wanted to go for a neighborhood stroll, then homed in on my pondside treat. That bagel was sending out a signal like a semaphore, even though the night was pitch black. I dove into the snowbank and came up victorious.  Then zoomed home, with the frozen delicacy well ensconced in my capacious jaws, while Mom flailed behind.

My plan worked perfectly, until I dropped the dear, cold bagel on the living room rug and prepared my attack. Ignoring my bared teeth, Dad picked up said bagel, and dropped it, sorry to say, into the—gulp—trash.