Two big dogs, black and white and rust, cover the floor with their long-haired bodies. Dinner over, they settle to their rest.
But then they catch the scent of turkey sausages, raw; the boy removes the casings while the pan heats. Suddenly two companions flank him, alert and ready. Sam sits faithfully, always believing that for good dogs food will fall from the heavens and into the dog's mouth. Molly, not so trusting, plots her move.
Sausages sizzle in the frying pan, turned from one side to the next. Sam drools, just a little. Molly remains focused on the prize.
Fully cooked, the objects of desire rest on a paper towel, awaiting the accompaniment of pasta, sauce and cheese. Sam lies down. Molly remains on the qui vive.
Plates served, I slip away to the bathroom for a moment. I return to find my husband standing by the counter, plate in hand, eating supper.
"Why are you standing and eating?"
"Did you actually think it was safe to leave them here?"
Does he mean the dogs, or the sausages?