Pity instead the dog.
A good dog. A dog who knows that food on the counter is inviolate. Who was left, alone, with a pound of thawing bacon. Dripping bacon-scented water on counter, and the floor. Getting warmer and tastier smelling by the minute, releasing it's tender meaty smell to the air. Where it flogged her her doggy nostrils, taunting her.
The torture must have been agony, waving a lit smoke under a tobacco addict's nose. In the end, her lust for raw meat overcame her inner good dog and it was gone. And she knew she done wrong: one look at her aspect when I arrived home and said 'I thought you said you had bacon out for dinner?' told the tale.
Poor ol' thang.