A Girl and Her Dog... Meat?

In our house, the source of meat is no secret. Mighty, mighty hunter that he is, Mr. Wright is very forthcoming with the kids about what they're eating. Plus, our kids visited the Angus in our freezer, back when it still walked the pastures of Bullet Bob, our friend and proprietor of Gyurkovics Ranch and Wedding Chapel. Bullet Bob married me and Mr. Wright (to each other, of course).

Snugglebug and Curlytop describe meat by the animal it came from. "Daddy, I want some cow," or "I want more deer, please." It's enough to turn a vegan mama's stomach. I used to wonder how the girls would respond when we got to the point in our Native American heritage studies where we discussed whale hunting, but now I just worry about how I will explain it without crying.

Curlytop's speech therapy has paid off in a huge way. We're so proud of her! She's speaking in complete sentences and using vivid, active words to describe what she sees and feels. There are still a few phrases she gets mixed up on, like instead of saying, "I want to show you something," she says, "I want you to show me something." We continue to work hard every day.

This morning, as Mr. Wright cut up a roast to put in the crock pot, Curlytop stood on her toes to see over the counter and asked a question. I was sure I'd either heard her wrong or she had some words confused, so I asked her to repeat herself.

Sure enough, she said again, "Daddy, is that meat of puppies?"

"No, Sweetie. It's cow."

"Oh. Not puppies? I want some cow!"

"Okay, but we have to cook it first, alright?"

Curlytop shrugged. "O...kay," she pouted. Mommy's little barbarian.

I got Curlytop off to school and pulled Snugglebug into my lap while I fired up my computer. When chaotic mornings allow, I find I actually like working with her sitting between my arms while I type. "Mom, I love you," she said as she got comfortable. Awwww... those heartstrings pull to the point of breaking, sometimes!

I should have known she was just buttering me up because she wanted something.

Snugglebug pulled off both of her socks and turned herself so she could put her feet in my face. "I want piggies," she said. Please understand, in my world, This Little Piggy goes a little differently than some of you may remember:

This little piggy went to the farmers' market;
This little piggy stayed home.
This little piggy ate tofu (not "toe food");
This little piggy had naan.
And this little piggy cried, "Wee, wee, weeeee..."
All the way home.

As the girls have grown up a bit, I've begun letting them choose their own piggy adventures. I start the story for each piggy, and let the girls finish. Today's piggies went like this, with my part in italics, and Snugglebug's in bold:

This little piggy went to... the new house!
This little piggy stayed... at the new house!
This little piggy ate... PUPPIES!
This little piggy had... PUPPIES!
And this little piggy cried, "Wee, wee, weeeee..."
All the way home.

Was there a butcher's special on puppy meat? Should I be concerned that piggies are having puppies? Our dogs are beginning to look a little nervous, and Kobi just asked me to double-check his AKC lineage.


Oh, have I mentioned you can pre-order my book now, and save tax and shipping? Do it because you love me.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/josefnovak33/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Sins of the Mother: When Animals Attack

I’m hanging all of my hopes for absolution on my daughter’s future career as a veterinarian. Perhaps, through Princess’s dedication to helping and saving animals, I will be forgiven by the animal kingdom for whatever sins I have committed in my previous lives.

I’ve always clung to the belief that animals know, instinctually, who is out to get them and who, conversely, is truly an animal lover that means them no harm. Why, then, has my life been littered with random attacks by wild and quasi-wild animals? I’m a vegan. I don’t eat animals. I try not to wear animals. I don’t steal their eggs, don’t subject them to naked humiliation by shaving them to spin their wool…

Obviously, in some previous incarnation, I was a hunter. Or a trapper. Or, simply, an animal hater.

How else to explain the unprovoked attack by a swan when I was three? That’s right – a swan. I was walking in the park with my mom and brother when a swan charged me and bit me. Perhaps my pre-vegan toddler breath smelled of chicken nuggets or eggs. Whatever the reason, the swan found my presence offensive and targeted me.

When I was five, I was attacked by a swarm of bees. In the bees’ defense, I did tromp over their home, but it was an accident that occurred during a rousing game of Follow the Leader through the woods near my friend’s house. She led, I followed… right over the top of a nest of bees. Her feet shook the bees up; mine angered them so thoroughly that they attacked, en masse, the little child attached to the intruding feet. The neighbors stripped my clothing down to my underwear to get the bees off while I screamed. My mother arrived in short order and, without access to a car, called the hospital instead of rushing me to the emergency room. She was told to pull the stingers out with tweezers (she stopped counting at 50), give me Tylenol, and watch for any alarming symptoms, such as a temperature over 105 degrees, paralysis, or death. Should any of those symptoms occur, she was to call 911 immediately. That’s right… if I died, she learned, someone should call 911.

At the age of six, I was bit by a ferret. Ferrets are interesting creatures in that they don’t bite and then let go. Instead, they bite and hold on, chewing the meat free. My six-year old screams were heard throughout the neighborhood, and the fingerprint of my right middle finger is permanently altered by a V-shaped scar through it.

In junior high, my face was scarred by Bambi. Not the real Bambi, of course, but a relative closely resembling the original friendly forest creature. Family friends had been feeding a little deer that visited their home, and I was fascinated by how tame he appeared. The sweet little guy was so cute, with his little budding antlers and big eyes. I fed him a carrot, and then wandered off to talk to my parents. Suddenly, I heard my name called, along with a loud “Look out!” warning. Alarmed, I turned around to see what the danger was, and found myself facing Bambi, reared up on his hind legs, hooves raised, ready to beat on my head. Instead, his hooves gouged down the middle of my face. As I raised my hands to my bloody face in pain and disbelief, someone explained to me that young male deer “play” with one another by beating each other on the heads with their hooves. How delightful.

Equally delightful was the experience of actually having to tell my friends at school that the deep, scabby trenches down my face were caused by the real-life version of a Disney character.

I fully expect, once Princess graduates from vet school and begins saving the animal world, whatever sins I’ve committed against nature will be fully atoned for. In my opinion, raising a veterinarian is a small price to pay for being able to walk out my front door without fear of being jumped by a gang of angry squirrels.