My Take Tuesday: The Dinner Guest

“Hey Doc, we’d love to have you over for dinner on Sunday. We’re grilling ribeye steaks and having banana cream pie.”

Two of my all-time favorite foods in the same sentence—how was I supposed to stay calm about that? And coming from John and Laura, two of the most loyal, salt-of-the-earth clients I’ve ever had, the invitation was even sweeter.

“I’d love to!” I said, probably faster than a man should admit.

“Perfect,” John said. “We’ll eat at seven. Come a little early—you can have some root beer and check out the new shed I’m building.”

“You bet,” I promised.

Sunday evening, I pulled into their driveway at 6:45 sharp. John was already waiting at the gate like he’d been tracking my ETA on radar. In his hand: a frosted mug big enough to double as a flower planter.

“Here you go, Doc. Fresh made.”

I took a sip. Vanilla. Cold. Sweet. The kind of root beer that hits the back of your brain and makes you rethink your brand loyalties.

“Now that is good,” I said, maybe a little too loudly.

John beamed and led me around the yard. I’d spent most of my hours with them out on the ranch, so seeing their home place was a change of pace. The lawn looked manicured enough to host a wedding reception. Lilacs were blooming, and the whole place smelled like spring was throwing a party.

“Come on in, Doc,” Laura called. “Dinner’s on the table!”

The kitchen table was an absolute spread—potatoes, warm bread, olives, ribeye steak, and the banana cream pie sitting there like a crown jewel. It was one of those meals you pause to appreciate before you even pick up a fork.

We ate, talked, laughed, and for a while, everything tasted as perfect as it looked.

Then, midway through the meal, John nudged the platter toward me. “Doc, there’s an extra piece of steak here. Want some more?”

“Absolutely,” I said, and started cutting into it.

“Do you like it?” he asked, watching me closely.

“Sure do,” I said.

“Good. You remember that old cow that had mastitis and that bad uterine prolapse? The one you told us we couldn’t sell? Well… we butchered her.”

Some sentences land gently. Others hit like a dropped toolbox. This one was the latter.

My appetite slammed on its brakes. The steak that was so tender a moment ago suddenly felt like it had tripled in density. All I could picture was that poor cow—prolapsed, infected, and now, apparently, partially inside me.

I managed a swallow, set down my fork, and cleared my throat. “Uh… could I get a little more root beer?”

Bless John and Laura—they were kind, generous people through and through. The evening was full of good company and genuine hospitality.

But as for eating steak at their house again?

Well… once was plenty.

And that’s my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM