The Dog Licked What???

Before I begin this slightly embarrassing entry, I must relay one of the most profound statements I have heard in a long time: "If you could kick the person in the pants responsible for most of your trouble, you wouldn't sit for a month."

This statement renders itself so true for me nearly every day, and ties itself rather nicely into today's tidbit:

A few weeks ago, I had the great fortune to stumble upon a beautiful, almost-new electric skillet at a thrift store. Since that time, that skillet has been used in our household nearly every evening. I am no culinary wizard, let me assure you. Most everything can be made to perfection with this amazing pan. It's virtually foolproof for my significant other, Romeo, and me to cook with. And it's Teflon coating makes cleaning it the easiest chore in the world!

One morning, I noticed the skillet on the floor next to the dogs dish. I asked, "Romeo, hon, did you let the dog eat the leftovers out of the skillet last night?" To which he responded, "Yes, I did. He loved them!" Now, ordinarily I do not have major issues with the dog enjoying after-dinner leftovers straight from the dishes we eat from. My dog shares from my own ice cream cones and laps beverages from my own drinking glass. I know my dishes will be hospital-clean before they are used again, so letting the dog lick them bone-dry does not bother me. There. Now you know. You are free to avoid eating at my house if you must.

On this particular morning, however, seeing the skillet on the floor and knowing that the dog had licked it clean instantly spurred a rather unpleasant realization. Before cooking dinner the previous evening, I remembered seeing what I perceived to be a neatly washed and dried skillet on the counter top. I remembered thinking, "Why, how sweet! Romeo cleaned the pan for me!" In hindsight, I should have questioned such a rare occurrence. Instead, I commenced to prepare dinner in that very skillet.

As these flashes of insights linked themselves together like a jigsaw puzzle, I picked the pan up off the floor and walked with it to where Romeo sat. Knowing the answer before I even asked, I sputtered, "Romeo,..did..you..give..the..dog...the...pan...to..lick..the...other..night...too?" Well, you can guess. He sure had. And he had kindly placed it back on the countertop when the dog was done with it. How sweet of him.

One could argue that I should not care too much about cooking in a pan that had skipped the wash cycle and went straight from the dogs slobbery tongue to our plates. After all, the food WAS cooked at a high enough temperature to kill any potentially offensive germs. And besides, if I allow the dog to lick from my ice cream cones, why should this little infarction be that big of a deal?

It was kind of a big deal to me at first. I was pretty ginched-out at the mere thought of ingesting cooked dog saliva. But when I looked down at him, with those big brown eyes staring back at me and that huge polar-bear head nuzzled up against me like a fuzzy bowling ball, my heart melted. I gave him a pat, and said to him, "Romeo, next time I will WATCH you clean up after supper!"

Aero, the dog, got a bone to chew that evening.

I hope you get a good laugh at my faux pas. I'm laughing about it now. Enjoy your day, and let me leave you with this: "If you cannot laugh at yourself, no worries. Someone else will do it for you."

Many guffaws,
L