"I've eaten cat, you know....In the Philippines...." The dishwasher's telling me, he's Filipino, I'm getting him to collect scraps of chicken and veal from the tables to feed my cats. He's asked about them, and I'm getting an idea of where the conversation is going....
I don't know what started, it, my collecting of scraps for my cat, of my various insensitive accusations of the things they would find edible. I'm not very culturally sensitive.
"It's good. Very good. Not so good in Canada....they feed them different, better food, more sweet...."
"Where did you get cat n Canada?" I ask, I have my suspicions...
He thinks for a second, he's nice, but not so bright...."I didn't, I meant, they feed them different here, not so good...."
"Are you out trapping cats?" I ask him. Every ethnic stereotype coming true....
"No, no, I don't eat cat in Canada..." he denies it. I don't believe him. Maybe not regularly, but I'll bet he's tried it, otherwise how would he know?
I think of my cats, the one, a Thanksgiving Turkey, the other, a fine muff for the hands and a plump chicken....I really shouldn't, my daughter would never forgive me, and I might have some moral qualms myself...Still, I'll need to have them looked after before Alaska....
"You should see my cats..."....I begin..."1 as fat as a Turkey....so fat....maybe Thanksgiving I bring him in for you...". He laughs. I won't, but for a moment the thought amuses me.