Jackie Wells-Fauth
So, it’s come to this. After years of deprecating my own cooking skills and proving time and again that I probably don’t have any, vindication may have arrived. I might finally have a fan.
Only trouble is, she has four legs, a tail and lacks the ability to brag about my culinary arts. That’s right: the fan of my cooking is Josie, our golden retriever.
Now, Josie and I have had a rocky relationship over the years. It’s no secret that when it comes to human companions, she prefers Roy…and I’m fine with that.
But it is also true that she has a hankering for people food. Occasionally, if I forget to put the top on the butter dish, I will walk into the kitchen to see a cleanly licked butter platter and a supremely satisfied dog.
There is also the time that we were sitting in the living room when we were struck by lapping sounds and a metallic tapping on the kitchen counter. We discovered the dog had helped herself to half a chocolate pie—that was all she could reach. I’ve heard that chocolate can kill a dog, but Josie has consumed at least a boatload and she’s still going!
But about my cooking. Josie had a tough time a couple of weeks ago. She went through several days where she could not keep anything down and she just laid around, not moving all day. She lost all interest in any food, including the popcorn she usually gets from Roy in the evenings. When she refuses that, you know she’s sick.
We watched her struggle for a couple of days and then we couldn’t stand it. So, we bundled her up and went to see the friendly local vet. The people at the vet clinic were so good. They checked Josie over and gave her a shot for nausea. Then, the vet said, “Maybe, instead of dog food, try some scrambled eggs or something that might be easier to keep down.”
Interesting suggestion. The vet was suggesting I cook for the dog. As that was sinking in, I looked at Josie and I knew just what she was thinking: “Please, I’ve seen her cooking. It’s inhumane to expect me to eat it. At least give me another nausea shot!”
As unenthused as she might have been, it suddenly struck me that I had reached a new low as well: I had been reduced from cooking for unenthusiastic humans to cooking for a dog who wasn’t keeping much down.
It did occur to me, however, that there was some additional pressure: if that poor dog were to die after eating my food, my inadequate cooking skills would graduate to killer status.
Nevertheless, do not let it be said that I did not rise to the challenge. I got out my pan and my eggs. The dog watched me with no enthusiasm. She had no hope, but I knew I could do this. I scrambled the eggs—I even used butter—and holding my breath, tipped them into her pan.
At first, she just sniffed it. Finally, she took a small bite. Then, a little more and a little more. She never “wolfed” it down as they say, but within the half hour the dish was empty—and she held it down!
We decided two mornings of scrambled eggs would be good, just to get her over the hump. By the third evening, we filled her dish with regular dog food. She looked at it and then at me as if to say, “What is this garbage? Where is my freshly cooked meal?”
She abandoned her dish and came and watched Roy and I consume our ham and potatoes. She drooled a little. After the meal, she stood in the kitchen and watched me pack all the leftovers into the refrigerator.
Then and only then, with the air of Joan of Arc headed to the stake, she went to her bowl and ate.
“What was that all about?” Roy asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I replied. “The dog is a fan of my cooking.”
dropsinthewell 