Table Scraps

Capt. McCluskey: “How’s the Italian food in this restaurant?”

Sollozzo: “Good. Try the veal, it’s the best in the city.”

Capt. McCluskey: “I’ll have it.”

 - The Godfather

         The parents of Christina’s lacrosse team take turns cooking a pasta dinner before every home game. We do this to boost the kids’ energy.             Apparently, come game day, without Pasta with Bolognese sauce, macaroni and cheese, restaurant bread sticks, two different kinds of green salad with cheese, ice cream sundaes, cookies, candy, and gallons of Arnold Palmer Iced Tea, these young women wouldn’t have the get-up-and-go to even walk to the field, let alone score a goal.

            Christina asked if we could have the Farmington High School Girl’s Varsity Lacrosse Team dinner at our house so her teammates could meet Vito. MacKenzie’s mom Pat and Annie’s mom Colleen would co-host.

            The girls were great with Vito. Camera phones clicked photos like we were in the middle of a red-carpet event.

            While the teenagers ate, I lost track of Vito. I got nervous that he snuck out when he girls entered the house. I called for him, and MacKenzie said he was right there at her feet, trolling for dropped food.

            I called for him to get out from under the table, but it was too late.

            For a flash, I saw the end of a breadstick in his mouth. By the time I blinked, it was down his throat.

            I tried to flush him out from the table, but he hid among the assorted legs, lying in wait for the next fallen morsel of food.

            A corner of crouton sailed down, and he snatched it in mid-fall.

            He unveiled a new, unappealing trick as he stood on his hind legs and sniffed around the girls’ plates. Now he was being a pest, so I grabbed him by the collar. He strained to lick the floor as I shoved him in his crate.

             I looked back at him, and I will never forget the look in his eyes -- betrayal, hurt, and anger. I had served him puppy chow like it was something special. He ate it happily because he never knew there was anything else. Now, however, the gig was up. Never again would he wag his tail as I scooped pellets of cereal into his bowl.

            The lacrosse team had shown him the joy of “pasta dinner” food, and the scraps and crumbs that descended from it. There was a whole world of yummy stuff out there, beyond that bag of cardboard I brought home from the pet store, just waiting for him to snatch, lick, and chomp.

            Vito had tasted people food, and I fear nothing will ever again be the same between us.