Sous Chef

I stand at the kitchen sink, hands slippery with dish liquid, body tired from puppy chasing. My brain is fuzzy from cataloguing the myriad of dangers from which I need to protect a four-month-old golden retriever. In one day, she’s tried to chew three electrical cords and licked numerous outlets. My girl is obsessed with power.

I am the kind of bone deep exhausted one gets from a day of plowing fields . . . barefoot . . . in a hurricane.

Behind me, I feel movement against my ankles, and she’s settled there, just close enough that she can fall asleep and know when I move away. This is the delicate choreography of the kitchen, constantly watching for a leg, an ear, or a tail within inches of whatever area of where I’m working. When I prepare dinner, a soft toffee-colored head pops between my arm and waist, ever ready to lick the cutting board or snag a morsel. Goldens have tongues that stretch like a chameleon’s, faster if the food isn’t dog safe.

A bowl taps the sink edge and she stirs a little, sighing, annoyed, at the interruption of her puppy dreams. In the past six years without a dog, I’d forgotten how it is to have a canine sous chef always nearby. Already everything that resides on the counter is pushed back against the wall in a necessary clutter. The blender and stand mixer have been evicted to make room for treat jars. No more kitchen towel hanging from the oven door handle, and if I forget, I’ll need to look behind a chair, under the table, or in her bed to discover where she’s left it. I’ll find it, sometimes a little soggy, always a little hairy. Diligent housekeeping can’t compete with the biscuit crumbs and mini waterfalls she creates after a drink. She is, above all, a water dog. I wash towels as often as my grandmother must have washed diapers.

In my kitchen of today, lower cabinets are toddler-locked with plastic contraptions so frustrating I find myself debating how much I really need to bring out the toaster. Untoasted bagels aren’t so bad with cool coffee that stayed too long on the table during our morning walk. It is always a slow go with so many neighbors popping out to pet her, share a treat, remark on her lanky doe legs, or ask what on Earth I’m feeding her. Miracle Gro?

She is a celebrity and pleases her public.

Dishes done, I move to the recliner, finally, where she’ll follow, scooting into a space beside me where she no longer fits. She’ll sigh again, this time content, and close her cocoa brown eyes, back to her puppy dreams while I rub her soft ears knowing that my tee shirt speaks the truth. Life is good.