Short Four Legs

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Fwoosh!

Fire; miniature blue torches dancing in a circle. They stand at attention, nary a flicker. Steel bars form a loose ribcage above the ignited burner. I place a cast iron on the heat and drizzle in a flick of oil.

From there, the smoke. It’s ghostly, whisps of white that flicker skyward toward the vent fan whirring above the stovetop. This isn’t the worst of it I think as I pull the sirloin out of the fridge. I pat it down with paper towels again, removing any excess moisture I might have missed. The cut isn’t anything special, but it’s fat and red, with a run of white fat shielding its backside. Perfect for Gus.

Gus has a lot of things; a refined palette isn’t one of them. This has always proven an advantage for myself; I can cook whatever I want for us and hear no complaints from my singular diner. For as long as we’ve been roommates, he’s taken keen interest in what I’ve been making. He’ll saunter in from the living room, getting a whiff of the air before his eyes boggle with anticipation. In short, the guy is easy to impress.

Before I can set the steak in the pan, the oven timer beeps. I hit the button and don a rubber lined oven mitt, removing a hot sheet pan from the oven’s fiery belly. Lined with tin foil, the pan harbors three steaming, caramelized sweet potatoes. The edges are browned, their skins crispy cups holding the delicate meat within. I deposit the potatoes onto a wire rack sitting upon the counter that neighbors the oven.

Going from front to back, I lay the steak in the pan. The smoke doubles over, sending plumes into the open air. The vent fan can’t keep up, residual smoke drifting toward the ceiling where my smoke detectors lay dormant and out of service. I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to cooking steak in non-industrial kitchens. Silence that smoke detector if you want to make juicy steak in a ripping hot pan. Pussy out and you’ll be eating beef jerky, despite your trouble.

Using tongs, I turn the steak once after a couple minutes, then after another two, I stand the steak on its sides. The spine of fat begins to render, dripping hot juices down into the pan. About an hour ago, when I was still prepping the potatoes, I cubed a stick of butter and have since let it soften at room temperature. I deposit two of these cubes into the pan and retrieve the large spoon I keep in the utensil drawer.

Basting is art. You could say the same for the entirety of gastronomy, but glazing a slab of meat with melting butter and sizzling herbs and roasted garlic? Phew. It’s not uncommon to get lost in the literal sauce of it. On this topic, I realize I’ve told a little lie. Gus doesn’t appreciate basting aromatics like I do; thyme tastes bitter and garlic gives him hiccups. That’s why I make his steak first.

Gus does his thing; saunters in to spy upon my process. I catch him in my periphery and can’t help but smirk as I ladle spoonful after spoonful of melted fat and butter back onto the steak. It’s golden and creamy and makes my stomach roil in anticipation. I can see why we’ve been best friends as long as we have.

This thought, along with the jingle of keys down the hallway, reminds me that I’m not just cooking for us tonight. Amanda cuts through the foyer, bypassing the living room, and enters the kitchen to see Gus and I in our respective spots in the kitchen. She greets Gus first, as normal; “saving the best for last” she always says as she comes up behind me, pecking me on the cheek. I think that sentiment is more to spare my feelings than Gus’s.

I can’t say Gus wasn’t jealous when Amanda entered the picture. There was an awkward period where Amanda had drawn my attention more than my best friend. More shocking was how fast Gus and Amanda bonded when they finally met. The jealousy had almost been reversed when I saw how well they got on. This feeling was quickly superseded by one of relief. If they could get along just fine… then I’d won, yes?

Amanda takes a seat at the counter, adjacent to Gus’s spot, whilst I continue on with the basting. With a couple extra turns, I deposit Gus’s steak onto a separate cooling rack. The flank sizzles as juice drips from its pores into the collecting pan below. I return to the pan, repeating my steps again with the new steaks. When I finish them with butter, I add the aforementioned thyme and garlic.

Cooking is suspension. When you’re in there, over the stove or folding eggs into flour to make pasta, everything else seems to disappear. Appointments I’ve left unattended become forgotten. That bill I still need to pay turns irrelevant. I’m left in a waltz with a set of paints that turn, if all goes well, into a mighty canvas by the end. Only then, when the gas is shut and the flames are snuffed, does time and reality come creeping back to me.

I’m only able to pretend for so long. When I fish the last steak from the pan and kill the heat, I feel a shiver in my lower gut. There’s a slight tremble in my hand that I have to steel when I begin to cut the steaks, against the grain, into pieces. Fatty, tender red strips with golden brown edges; a blanket upon a bed of orange sweet potato puree.

It’s nothing fancy, but pretty all the same. I give myself five more seconds to stare at the plating before serving Gus and Amanda their dinner. Handing Amanda her dinner, I take Gus’s dish, and my own in hand as we migrate to the living room. Our old couch sits slumped against the wall, well-worn and molded to fit our shapes. As I set the dishes on the coffee table, Gus takes his place next to my spot on the couch. His dog bed, once grey and ovular, now sits lopsided and matted with his golden hair.

I kneel before him with his plate in hand. He sits expectantly, his heavy tail thumping against the wall behind him. A strand of drool leaks from the black corner of his mouth and onto his right paw. After twelve years, the man still gets considerably excited about eating dinner. You and me both, bud.

“Buttered sirloin with sweet potato,” I say as I set the dish on the ground, just beyond his dog bed. Our eyes meet once again. He’s a good boy. “Enjoy.”

Gus takes to the dish with an alarming hunger, then settles into a slower pace after his first couple of swallows. He almost savors the meal; lapping at the potatoes whilst the back of his mouth masticates a tender hunk of steak. I only manage a bite or two before my attention is completely drawn to Gus.

You could describe the feeling as melancholy, I guess. Grief. The old boy goes under tomorrow. I suppose when this time comes, you start preparing internally. Bracing yourself for the moment the reality settles in; that you have to walk out of that clinic short four legs. I think death is easy enough for us to understand, at least from a biological standpoint, but it’s much more difficult to process. Grief is an odd thing. It’s the beginning of a path to understanding; the decoding of a feeling left behind by someone you love.

Gus gulps down the last bit of his dinner and licks the bowl clean. Amanda sits next to him now, having barely touched her own plate. She strokes the white-streaked fur of his golden head as he pants, smiling the silly grin he can never seem to put away. Holding Gus’s snout from underneath, I crane my neck to kiss the graying fur behind his nose.

“Good boy, Gus,” Amanda says. Gus looks up at her, flicks his tongue in the air in hopes of kissing her chin as she enters his personal space. We allow ourselves a few moments to become a mess. The forecast right now calls for tears and recollection before the true storm tomorrow morning. Contrary to us, the sun sets outside our living room window, casting a violent orange light across a light pink sky. This light warms the wood of the living room floor and sets Gus’s fur ablaze in fiery yellow light.

It’s what we need to bring us back down. While my steak goes cold, I stroke the back of Gus’s head as the three of us catch the settling of the westward sun.

Love be a flame,

Raging and hot.

While the fire doth fade,

The embers will not.