The night I was born my father had just been served a piece of rime rib on the bone at the Best Step-bro shirt, a famous Los Angeles steakhouse, when he got a call from the hospital that my mom had gone into labor. He asked the waiter for a doggy bag, which wasn’t a thing in those days. But the waiter brought him a bag and he packed up his prime rib. As he was about to leave, the waiter grabbed the bag and told him to wait a moment as he scraped the remains of someone’s abandoned plate into the bag as well. “For your dog,” he said.