The Mystery of the Vanishing Steak

My husband made a terrific dinner last night - mashed potatoes, green beans and grilled flank steak. I knew it smelled absolutely wonderful. Even the husband knew he'd done well, having cooked each item to perfection. I was sitting at the kitchen table cutting up bananas, apples and grapes for a fruit salad. My back was turned to the oven, as I sliced the fruit. The husband had stepped away for a moment to check the score of some game that was blaring on the television. As he was about to walk back into the kitchen, my father-in-law arrived home. They stood briefly in the living room swapping the pleasantries before entering the kitchen where I sat alone with my bowl of fruit, a cutting board and slightly dull knife. My husband's eyes met mine in what can only be described as a panic.

"What happened to the steak!" he exclaimed.

I turned to see the platter still sitting on the countertop, minus the four generous cuts of meat he had just prepared. A puddle of dark brown au jus was all that remained on the dish. Quickly, the husband began scouring the kitchen for the missing meat. He looked in the microwave and oven. He even opened the refrigerator, but his ministrations were to no avail. The steak was gone.

Realizing that he hadn't moved the steak, the husband's mind started wandering to other possibilities. Had someone broken into the house? Perhaps a homeless person been so overcome by the delicious smell permeating from our kitchen that he slipped in through the sliding glass door and napped our meat? Nothing made sense. Nothing seemed probable or possible. We all stood in silence for a few moments, waiting for an answer to appear to us. Again, the husband broke the silence:

"RIPKEN!!!" he screamed. "GODDAMNITRIPKEN!!!"

Our big fuzzy dog had magically disappeared from the kitchen. In fact, all three of our dogs were laying low. Instantly, things became very clear. As the realization swept over us, our eyes darted to the floor in search of traces of our missing dinner. Next to the stove there was the slightest smear of beef juice. Apparently, the husband had walking as the perpetrators were cleaning up the crime scene. The criminals were forced to flee before they were finished disposing of evidence.

We found our giant, fur ball in the living room, lounging between the couch and the wall. Rip's stomach was pouched out slightly and he actually burped in his sleep. Sonny the Pug lay nearby - traces of steak tucked neatly in the flaps of skin on his face. Deuce was sat on the edge of the couch and concentrated on being very, very still. Surprisingly, he looked totally innocent. I sat down next to him and he couldn't resist giving me kisses. His breath smelled of marinated flank steak. Ripken might have been the instigator, but he certainly did not act alone.

Just as rage was about to force my husband to spontaneously combust, my father-in-law suggested we bag it and grab some fast food. Ten minutes later we were at Chi-Fil-A.

"Do you know what really burns me up?" the husband asked.

"What?" I said.

"Ripken has such a sensitive stomach. You know that he's going to get diarrhea from eating all that steak," he said. "And I WILL BE THE ONE TO CLEAN IT UP! That's just adding insult to injury."



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