The local multi-cultural market had a special on chicken drumsticks last week, 79 cents a pound. I don’t eat chicken because of my aversion to the way animals are raised for food in this part of the world, but my dogs aren’t as troubled by things like ethics; so, I bought two large packages of about six chicken legs each. I did think briefly about the half dozen chickens who would struggle with paraplegia, I wondered do they even make wheel chairs for chickens or do they have to use skateboards to navigate. Career options for chickens are already limited and I don’t know if hens could lay eggs if they couldn’t squat and cocks would certainly be at a disadvantage in the fighting arena. Knowing the brutality of the chicken pecking order, the future looked grim for the six poultry who lost their legs for my dogs’ benefit.
My freezers are stuffed full of this summer’s nectarines and surplus tomatoes, so I put the packages of drumsticks (sounds way cheerier than chicken legs) in the refrigerator section of the little fridge in my mum’s granny flat and promptly forgot about them. This morning, when looking for something in the little freezer, I got a whiff of something. A search of the fridge exposed the 79 cents per pound chicken legs (no doubt discounted to move the already aged product).
Considering that dogs think cat scat a treat, I deemed the meat “not that bad” and dumped it into the crock pot. And figuring I might as well go all in, I added the usual organic, steel-cut oats ($3.89/lb), some California-grown Jasmine rice (less arsenic than Thai), generic carrots, celery, and potatoes (all dutifully scrubbed to remove any residual pesticides). By the time the crock pot reached simmering temperature, the stench was undeniable and I decided to consult the internet about just how invincible a dog’s digestive tract is. The consensus was NOT, if it smells off, it will make your dog sick. So, since the trash doesn’t get picked up for another three days, I dug a hole in the back yard and buried the whole mess.
My day didn’t get better: I developed a new floater which has me swatting at nonexistent gnats; I got to the checkout line at Trader Joe’s and realized I’d left my credit card at home, so I dutifully returned all of my purchases to the shelves; and upon arriving home, remembered that there’s such a thing as cash that is accepted as legal tender and I had a wad of it in my wallet.
Now, some might think senile dementia is creeping up on me, but I would counter that there are many days that I don’t remember a single similar episode ever happening to me.