Rules For Dining

I am not allowed to eat dinner with them.

This has been the rule for as long as I can remember. My parents feed me first, thirty minutes or an hour before they eat, and then they send me out of the room for their meal. At first they would keep a closed door between us while they ate, to limit distractions. They would set me up in the living room with a toy or something else to keep me occupied. Now that I’m older I’ve learned not to bother them during dinner so they don’t close the door on me anymore. Sometimes I’ll sit just outside the threshold to watch and listen but I am not allowed in the room. 

Most of the time the things they say go right over my head anyway. Usually I’ll get bored and fall asleep right there on the floor.

They never feed me the same food as them either and except for very special occasions, the food they serve me is gray and bland and devoid of flavor. I am, unfortunately, not a picky eater and I think they take advantage. It’s an insult to me really, and I often think I should refuse to eat it. I plan all day, (beginning right after breakfast), to refuse to eat dinner. I’ll clamp my jaw shut and stick my nose in the air until they serve me something better.

I always forget my hunger strike as soon as the food is in front of me.

Tonight our routine is no different than any other day, except that my parents seem happier than usual, more excited, and perhaps a bit on edge. My mom has been cleaning like a madwoman, dusting every surface, and straightening throw pillows that, in my opinion, were already plenty straight. She has lit candles in every room, all of them with different smelling scents that make my nose itch. She cleaned up my toy box, taking some of the especially old ones to put away in the closet. And she washed. My. Blanket. I’m trying hard not to be upset with her for that, something is happening that she is clearly anxious for, but she knows how much I love my blanket.

Dad has been chewing his nails and every time mom catches him doing it she smacks him lightly on the arm.

There is a tree in the corner of the living room. It is big and full and green and fake. I am not allowed to touch the Tree. Last week mom and dad spent an entire afternoon covering it with bright and colorful toys while I played on the floor and watched. That evening while they were eating dinner I took one or two of the toys down to play with. When they saw me I got in trouble. Not big trouble, but enough to make me sad for a while. After that they put a baby gate around the Tree so that I couldn’t touch it or play with the toys, which is confusing because why would they bring in a giant tree that takes up half the living room if you can’t touch it? And why would they put toys all over it if you can’t play with them? It must be one of those things that I’ll understand when I’m older. (It was more like nine or ten of the toys.)

Tonight’s dinner smells extraordinary. The kitchen is warm and heavenly smells invade my nose. Every time someone opens the refrigerator door, something cool and sweet wafts out. Something on the counter is fresh and fruity; something else smells sharp. The air is heavy with the savory meat cooking in the oven, and all of it is highlighted by the exquisite freshly baked bread. It is all intoxicating and I’m sleepy just from smelling it.

Mom began cooking early in the morning. After breakfast she did the dishes and then took a huge slab of meat out of the fridge. She sprinkled salt and pepper on both sides and rubbed it in with her hands. She poured a bottle of the Grown Up Juice in a big dish and mixed it with a brown, spicy smelling sauce and other seasonings. The whole slab went into the dish- she flipped it several times to completely soak in the mixture- and then covered the dish in plastic wrap and put it in the refrigerator. 

She crushed up a big bag of pecans and mixed them with butter and flour, pressing the mixture down into another clear dish with her fingers. That went in the oven to bake for a few minutes while she mixed cream cheese, cool whip, vanilla pudding, and a can of pumpkin in a large bowl. She even gave me a spoonful of pudding to taste. When the oven beeped she put on a thick blue oven mitt and took the dish out. She poured the pumpkin mixture over the crust and then scooped big spoonfuls of cool whip which she spread evenly on top. She covered the dish with plastic wrap and put that in the fridge too.

She mixed a tiny bowl of water and yeast until the fine powder disappeared. She combined flour and sugar and salt in one bowl and melted butter and hot milk in another. Then she mixed all three bowls together anyway which seemed like a big waste of time to me. She ripped equal sized chunks of the thick dough and rolled them into balls before placing them altogether on a baking sheet and brushing them with water. She covered them with plastic wrap. This, she left out on the counter.

Later we went back to the kitchen (she went, I followed.) She took the meat out of the dish and put it in a skillet on the stove. I watched her set a timer and when it went off, she flipped the meat over and set it again. She poured about half of the Grown Up Juice mixture down the sink but left the rest in the dish and filled it the rest of the way up with broth. She washed and chopped up potatoes and carrots and added them in the mixture. She gave me a piece of carrot and ate a bite of one herself. When the timer went off a second time she took the meat off the skillet and put it back in the dish, this time covering it with a heavy lid instead of the plastic. She put the whole dish in the oven and we left the kitchen.

After cleaning the bathrooms and sweeping and mopping in the kitchen, mom started making salad. She chopped a head of purple cabbage and tore up pieces of mint, she sliced cucumbers and strawberries and mixed all of it together with spinach and vinegar. She cut slices off of different blocks of cheese and put them on a wooden board with crackers, black and green olives, artichokes, dried apricots, and figs; meticulously arranging and rearranging them for a long time until she was satisfied. 

Dinnertime is fast approaching. Dad wandered into the kitchen and offered to help but mom shooed him away. He took a stack of plates and napkins and silverware into the dining room and set the table. When mom finished with the wooden board she came into the dining room and “fixed” everything dad had done. Dad and I stood in the doorway watching as she did, both of us perplexed. 

Dad fed me hastily in the kitchen. Even on special occasions I am not allowed to eat with them.

Mom finished in the kitchen while I ate. She cooked green beans soaked in italian dressing in a pot on the stove. She took the expanded dough balls and put them on another pan and into the oven, setting the timer again. While she had the oven open she used the oven mit to lift the lid off the pan and poked at the meat with a fork. She brought the salad and the board out to the table and immediately rearranged the whole setting.

Back in the kitchen we went (I followed) to put the green beans in a serving bowl and plate the pot roast. She finished the dessert by sprinkling chopped pecans over the fluffy white cream.

The timer went off. The rolls are finished. Dinner is ready.

The doorbell rang.

Mom and dad froze in their tracks. For a moment, nobody moved. You could hear a pin drop.

Mom gave a nervous laugh and reached for dad. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. They went to the door together and opened it.

A woman stood on the porch. She carried a brown leather bag and a blue folder bursting with papers. She was short and small and scary. She wore a tight black skirt and a maroon button up blouse. Her hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it looked painful. The skin on her face was stretched so hard that I thought it might rip in half. Her eyes were small and hard and mean. I wanted to give her a hug.

My parents greeted the stranger and invited her in. I watched as she immediately took stock of the house, her eyes scanned the walls and furniture before finally landing on me.

“This is Jack,” dad said. 

“A puppy?” She asked, skeptical. My ears perked up because I know that word! I wagged my tail. Now I really wanted to hug her but I stayed where I was because dad said to.

They stood in the front room and talked some more. They all seemed really stiff and uncomfortable. Mom was quieter than usual and dad kept talking really fast. I didn’t understand a lot of what they said but I recognized a few words like “home”, “good”, and “baby.” Then mom said one of my favorite sentences: “Do you want to eat dinner?” 

My tail went on auto pilot. I stood up, stretched my front legs, and looked at dad, excited. 

“Jack, stay.” He said and the three of them went into the dining room. I watched them for a few minutes. Dad pulled out a chair for the woman and did the same for mom. Mom looked up at him warmly but the woman didn’t seem impressed. Mom served the salad and I watched closely, just in case she dropped anything, imagining how fast I would run in and out of the room to get the food if she did drop it.

I got bored fast. I couldn’t really hear them anymore and I didn’t recognize any of the words anyway. There was a blue rubber bone in my toy box calling my name.

They finished dinner and cleared the plates from the table. The woman seemed much more relaxed now than she had been when she first arrived. So did mom and dad. I even heard the woman laugh once. I’d fallen asleep on the floor in the living room but when they pushed back their chairs and started walking around the house I got up to follow. 

They played a game where they walked into every room in the house. Dad would open the door and turn on the light. The woman would step into every room and look around the same way she had when she first came into the house, then she’d make notes in her folder. Sometimes she’d ask questions and mom was always the one to answer them. There was one room in particular that mom seemed especially proud of. Dad and I waited in the doorway while she, mom, showed the woman around the room.

At the end we all gathered again in the front room. It was late now and I was tired. After dinner we’re supposed to snuggle while mom and dad watch tv and I eyed my spot on the couch longingly. They talked again in short clipped tones the way that humans seem to do when one of them is leaving. Then the woman looked at me for the first time since she’d arrived. 

I heard my name, “Jack,” and I wagged my tail.

Dad said something and the woman sheepishly asked something with the word “pet” in the middle. I love that word. I wiggled closer to her.

Mom and dad both responded and stepped back to make room for the woman to kneel in front of me. She scratched my chest first and then behind my ears. She rubbed my back, stroking from head to tail. Then she said one of my favorite sentences: “What a good boy.”

After the woman left we finally settled in for couch snuggles and I fell asleep almost instantly. Between the cooking and the cleaning and the hosting, I was exhausted.

I saw the woman a few more times after that day and every time she greeted me with a pat and said, “Hello Jack!” Once she even brought me a snack. 

Four months after that evening we had a new guest for dinner. This one stayed every night for dinner and was there every morning for breakfast too. This one was short and small and messy and loud. This one threw food all over the dining room and for the first few days I’d think Really? I’m the one who’s not allowed in the dining room? But then mom and dad stopped enforcing that old rule and I can’t help but think this new person had something to do with it. This one played with me more than mom or dad ever did and is the only person that doesn’t get tired before me. This one smells amazing. This one brought couch snuggles up to a whole new level.

This one introduced me to my new favorite words: “Baby brother.”