The box in the fridge we don’t talk about

So there’s this box in our fridge. It’s a tupperware, snap tight box. Cringe. And it’s full of meat scraps. Uber cringe. We don’t eat meat, we’re pesche vegetarians. And our kitchen is Kosher. Blowtorched by the Rabbi, tools dipped in the Mikvah, the whole shebang. But this one box is the safe-zone, the elephant in the room, the area that doesn’t count. It’s for Gracie.

Gracie goes to the office with Mr. Stone during the day. Even though Gracie is technically Jack’s dog, Mr. Stone and Gracie have a special bond. She’s the daughter he doesn’t have. She genuinely smiles in his company. Well, that’s because he SPOILS her.

The butcher across from Mr. Stone’s office saves scraps for her. He has a soft spot for her too. She gets to go into the butcher shop [healthy and safety, smafety] and personally collect her doggie bag. She brings it home, with great pride, tail wagging.

She gets to eat these scraps outside. OUTSIDE! They are bloody, fat dripping, gross gross GROSS!

Then I hose off the deck, like an obsessive, compulsive. Erase all traces of blood from my garden! And we pretend this didn’t happen. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a problem that she’s a meat eater. It would not be fair to impose our meat-free lifestyle on a dog. But why can’t she eat non-descript cans that started out as meat but don’t look like meat anymore? Surely that would be less, I don’t know, primitive? We’re not living in the great blue yonder. We don’t even have a driveway! That’s how city-dwell we are!

So why do I have to have a dog in my garden, twice a day, pretending she’s leader of the pack?

Comments

  1. Kristabelle says:

    Dude, right on there borther.

  2. Stew says:

    Hey, you’re the goto exerpt. Thanks for hanging out here.

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