Tonkatsu has been one of my favorite dishes ever since an ex-boyfriend introduced me to it nearly 20 years ago.

On Saturday night, after M went to sleep, I decided to treat myself to a tonkatsu dinner. For those who are unfamiliar with this Japanese dish, imagine thin boneless pork chops, breaded with panko (Japanese bread crumbs), flash-fried and topped with a tangy and spicy brown sauce. The cutlets are usually served with a side of sticky sushi rice and a small salad.

Even when cooking for one, the rice takes the longest so I got that started right away. As it percolated in the rice cooker, I turned my attention to setting up the breading station: a plate of flour, a bowl of beaten egg and a plate of panko. Once that was done, I took my two pork chops and very carefully cut them in half lengthwise, making them extra thin. Doing this allows the dish to feel a bit lighter; the pork cooks faster, too. Lastly, I filled the skillet with about 1/2-inch of vegetable oil and set the heat to medium-low. I knew that by the time the oil was ready, the rice would be nearly done. Since I had a few minutes to spare, I wrapped the chops in paper towels to blot out excess moisture, set them on the counter next to the breading station and returned to my office to answer a few emails.

The time spent at my desk was both productive and brief. Knowing the oil wouldn’t take long, I typed swiftly. So it was only a few minutes later that I swiveled in my chair to face the door. I always do this before standing because my dog Duncan likes to sleep directly behind my desk chair and I don’t want to accidentally roll over him. This time, however, I was surprised to find that he wasn’t there. Nor was he sleeping on the loveseat against the wall. In fact, it had been quite a while since I had seen him.

Any one who has children will understand the “uh oh” feeling that descends during such moments. It’s the dreadful one that makes you listen intently to your home because it’s quiet, too quiet. In our child-free and pet-filled house, there is a similar ritual, along with the sure knowledge that certain noises should always be present. Even at 3 a.m., silence was not the norm.

As I stood and began to walk down the hallway, the sound of Duncan’s dog license and proof-of-rabies-shot medallion making a decidedly mischievous clink reached my ears and filled me with additional worry. But by the time I reached the kitchen, the room was empty.

And all the pork chops were gone.

Unlike the detectives in mystery novels, I didn’t need to study the evidence — empty space on the counter, two small scraps of paper towel lying on the ground — to figure out whodunit. I knew exactly who the culprit was.

Sure enough, by the time I reached the living room, a shame-faced canine was lying low in his crate, guilt written all over him. He knew what he did was wrong and he knew I’d be furious. Yet that knowledge just couldn’t keep him from taking advantage of the situation. Apparently the punishment he knew he’d receive was well worth the crime.

I’ll bet those chops were tasty.