The Last Tomato
The Resident was in the doghouse yesterday. He ate the last heirloom tomato. It was a big ripe Brandywine. Craig and I had examined it the day before. We were making Thai food, so we agreed to let the tomato ripen one more day. Then we would slice it and have it with basil and olive oil and balsamic vinegar. But when I went out to pick it the next day it was gone.
We sat on the back porch and griped. I could see that Craig was thinking, this has gone too far. “He has no concept of sharing,” I said irritably. Well, of course not. He’s a raccoon. Then we thought: he was watching it, too. He probably thought two days ago, I’ll let it go another day. It’s almost ready. We thought some more. He just beat us to it.
We said, what if we had not waited? Then we both thought about him going to get the beautiful tomato and finding it gone. Craig said, “Aww.” We both suffered a moment of pain at his imagined disappointment. We pictured him returning to his den alone, tomato-less. Craig said, “I guess he can have it. We can always go to the store.”
