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The Stove-Story 10 of 31

By Ta’kom Ironhoof

The sun was setting again.

For the sixth day in a row, my stomach began to growl at the exact same time as it always had. For as long as I can remember, ever since I was a pup, dinner was always at the same time. And, as you can imagine, in a household full of wolves, we would get upset if we had to wait even a minute longer than normal. It was our routine; our way of life.

However, ever since I moved in this…house, I just don’t want to cook.

That’s not right. It’s not that I didn’t want to cook or eat, but it’s just so difficult. And again, as a wolf, I love to eat. If I had the money, if I could leave, I’d just go into town and spend some money, sit down at a diner or a fast-food joint. However, about two months ago, I lost my job.

“Lost” probably isn’t the right word to use. I was fired for “not being a team player.” They just wouldn’t listen to me. I was trying my hardest. I was fighting so hard, but nothing I seemed to make a difference. I had finally gotten off the streets after being homeless when I lost my entire family. Nobody would have expected that boat to capsize, and had I not been at work, I would have been right there with them.

It took a few weeks of savings but eventually, I was able to save enough to rent this house. Apparently, my parents had gotten behind on their mortgage and there simply was no way that I could have taken over that large of a monthly payment, much less the other bills they left behind.

It’s not the best of houses, but the price was certainly right. And I could have covered the electricity and water and garbage. But only if I had a job. Still surprised the landlord hasn’t come by yet to evict me. Not paid rent for a while now cause I can’t leave this damned house. Just so I didn’t have to stand in that kitchen and cook.

But now, if I don’t eat, I fear what is going to happen. I’m so weak already. At least I’ve got water. That hasn’t been shut off yet. For several nights now, that’s what I’ve been doing to at least feel full; drinking glass after glass of water until it’s uncomfortable, but I need to eat something.

Even now, sitting here daydreaming of sinking my teeth into something, ANYTHING substantial, I can feel the drool starting to fall from my mouth.

“FINE!” I shouted aloud. “I’ll cook something, goddamn it!” I knew I still had a few things left over from when I first moved in. Hopefully, they hadn’t spoiled yet.

With a burst of energy, I pushed my chair away from the dining table and stomped into the kitchen. I prayed my determination would be enough to get me through. And maybe making all that noise would be enough to keep them at bay until I could finish a meal.

As I stepped into the kitchen, I saw the object of my ire; the stove. There was nothing special about it. It was a standard electric oven, probably from the late 80s or early 90s. It had a yellowish brown paint that reminded me of dried macaroni. And I hated it. I hated it so, so much.

I hurriedly opened the fridge, ripped out some ingredients, before whirling over to the cabinet and getting a few more things. Finally, I grabbed a pot, slammed it on the stove, and began throwing various things in as I turned the eye on.

I must hurry.

As the old meat began to brown, I poured in a dusty can of tomatoes and green chilis, dashed in some stale seasonings, and a bit of beef broth. I hoped none of this would make me sick. For the first time in six days, I felt as if I might be able to have a meal; eat something that would sustain me, at least for a little while longer.

I was beginning to be hopeful. The scents coming from the boiling pot below me had my mind racing. Maybe I could get out of this house. With the doors stuck, along with the windows, maybe I could get out through the attic? I’d need something to knock a hole through the roof, but it could be an option. Not sure what I’ve got around here, but I’m sure I can find something.

As my mind drifted on how to escape this place, I saw the first one, the little bastards that had been the bane of my existence since I first arrived in this house. As soon as I noticed it, I grabbed a pot holder and swatted at it, causing the little cockroach to scurry away. I knew it would be back but, right now, I couldn’t worry about that. I had to hurry and finish this.

I continued cooking and swatting, ever vigilant for those insect bastards. After the first one ran away, two more crawled from around the backside of the stove. Once I ran them off, several more appeared, sitting on the edge of the stove, wiggling their antennae at me. Another swing of the pot holder and they too disappeared. I was now hunched over the pot, protecting my meager meal. They’d be coming soon.

It seemed that every time I ran one off, they’d run back to the rest of them, telling them that food was on the way. I couldn’t worry about that right now. I needed to eat.

Though the pot was still boiling, I shoved my hand inside, gathering as much as I could, and shoved it into my salivating mouth. At last! I had eaten something. The pain coming from my hand was great, but my satisfaction from finally having something in my belly was greater. I lifted my head, closed my eyes, and swallowed. I couldn’t complain about the taste now. I was going to eat.

I lowered my head and opened my eyes.

To my absolute horror, an army of cockroaches had surrounded my pot, only staved off by the heat of the eye. That’s when I noticed the itchy feeling of something crawling up my leg. Without looking, I kicked out my leg to throw the little bastards off as I grabbed the pot and ran back to the dining room. As I made my way, I continued to shove my hand in the pot, ignoring the pain, so that I could eat before they took it from me.

To my horror, they had beaten me to the dining room. The table, chairs, and even the walls were covered; little brown and black insect bodies skittering and crawling everywhere. I couldn’t win. I’d never be able to win.

With a sigh, I calmly walked over to the table, sitting the pot down as I plopped into the chair, squishing an unnumbered amount of them. I could feel them in my fur. I could feel them beginning to crawl on me again.

This is why I couldn’t cook. And even though I tried to be quick in sitting down, the pot was already covered. They were already inside it, eating the first meal I had cooked in six days. There was nothing I could do. I’d tried everything at my disposal and, no matter what, they always won.

So tonight, I gave up. I slumped back in my chair and opened my maw. They always found a way to get it, anyway. They wouldn’t be satisfied until they had eaten everything I had cooked, including what I had already swallowed.

It then occurred to me I didn’t need to cook. I had an infinite supply of food crawling all around me.