Pomeranian Surprise

By Stephen D. Rogers



Cooking the dog was a mistake.

I can’t believe I was even trying, especially given the experience of the post-skunk bath. Or the day I took Muffy to the ocean and she slipped her leash to bolt for the parking lot.

Even at the best of times, Muffy was not exactly a water dog. Just now, she leapt from the pot on the stove faster than she’d dropped in.

After turning off the burner, I called my mother and explained the situation.

“You’re doing what?”

“Cooking Muffy.” My mother could reduce me to a child, just by modulating the tone of her voice.

“Have you lost your mind? Boiling is for six-minute eggs. Are you cooking an egg?”

“No.” I tried not to mumble.

“You’re mumbling.”

Raising my voice, I annunciated clearly. “No.”

“I didn’t think so. You want to cook a Pomeranian, you use the oven.”

“Okay.”

“Take out the racks and pre-heat to 350 degrees.”

After placing the racks on the counter, I examined the oven dial. “There’s no pre-heat.”

“It’s a wonder you haven’t starved to death. Pre-heat just means to raise the internal temperature before setting the timer.”

“I can do that.” I did.

“Julia Child would almost be as proud as I am. Do you think you’re all set? The choir is coming over shortly for a pot-luck.”

“Thanks for all your help, Mom. Enjoy your social.” I disconnected.

Muffy stared at me from under a kitchen chair.

“Good news.” I emptied the pot into the sink, moving my face to the side so I wouldn’t suffer a steam burn. “Treat?”

Muffy’s ears twitched.

“Does fluffy Muffy wanna treat-see-poo?”

Her plumed tail rose and then wagged.

Recognizing I needed to earn her trust back in stages, I fetched the box of dry dog biscuits, stepping away once I placed one in front of her.

Muffy swallowed it whole.

“Chew, Muffy. Those hard things surrounding your tongue? Those are teeth.” Seeing the oven light had gone out, I opened the door and tossed a biscuit inside. “You don’t want to choke.”

The dog rested her head on her paws.

“Playing hard to get?” I retrieved the beef strips from the cupboard and sniffed one before tossing it into the oven. “Yummy, yummy.”

Muffy whined, the sound multiplied by tiny voices on the other side of the door.

Would my mother be glad to prove to her friends that I couldn’t live without her or be pissed if I interrupted her social to beg for advice?

“Muffy. Oven. Now.”

She yipped. Again the echo.

I glanced at the clock. “Look, Muffy, I promised the light of my life a fancy dinner this evening. You and I need to get a move on if I’m going to make that happen.”

Muffy scooted backwards.

“You can’t say I didn’t try.” I wagged my finger. “What did I tell you? Do you remember? I said that if you loved your puppies, you’d cooperate.”

I marched towards the door. “Well, you didn’t. I guess that means I’m making kabob tonight.”