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The Semi-vegetarian
I’m a semi-vegetarian. I only eat
animals that are particularly delicious. That, of course,
excludes the bland taste of farmed meats. Wild game has also
become less flavoursome in recent years, which led me to seek
alternatives. Specifically, it led me to the pond of my
neighbour, Mr Wilson, at two in the morning, and equipped with a
net.
Koi carp served with parsley and fresh
vegetables is excellent, although would, perhaps, be overpriced
at the market rate of one thousand pounds per fillet.
My subsequent visit to the local zoo was
intended by way of reconnaissance. It was pure chance to be
standing at the penguin enclosure, less than an arm’s length
from a lone gentoo. Also that the creature was slightly smaller
than my rucksack.
Penguin, I discovered, tasted pleasantly
like goose with a hint of fish. I was sufficiently impressed to
return to the zoo with a view to another, or perhaps a nice piece
of lemur?
My hopes were cruelly dashed by vastly
increased security. Flopsy, as I understood her to have been
named, had been missed. Extra keepers patrolled unfenced
enclosures, and all bags were searched on exit. This
disappointingly mirrored the paranoid over-reaction of Mr Wilson,
who now spent each night in his garden shed, in view of his pond,
shotgun at the ready.
One week later I steered my small van from
the main route which passed through the safari park, stopping
beneath trees. I cranked levers in the cab to open the rear doors
and allow the smell of the bait to drift towards the pride of
resting lions. Shortly, one of their number, fearless from
captive life, climbed into the vehicle and, with a flick of my
quick release door closure mechanism, was trapped. I pressed the
button that re-routed the exhaust gasses to the sealed rear
compartment of the van, and commenced my homeward journey. The
sounds of banging and roaring rapidly abated.
It was dark when I drove into my garage and
decided to take a look at my prize. I opened the rear doors of
the van to be met by the panic-stricken stare of a terrified and
disoriented creature. It knocked me to the floor as it leapt for
freedom into the night, towards the house of Mr Wilson.
Two gunshots split the silence. I rushed to
Mr Wilson’s garden.
‘I got that bugger that ‘ad me
fish.’ Mr Wilson gestured the smoking shotgun towards the
lifeless body. ‘Big ain’t it?’ he continued,
‘I reckon it was livin’ wild on them geometrically
modified crops. Bastard is that I ain’t got a licence for
the bleedin’ gun, so the police are gonna do me for that.’
‘Why tell them?’ I questioned.
‘It’s not as if you’ve shot a person. I could help
you get rid of the animal.’
All’s well that ends well. Mr Wilson
is grateful that I somehow got rid of the dead cat. Buying three
freezers cost, mind you, but they’re bound to be useful.
Standing in the moonlight with Mr Wilson, I couldn’t help
noticing how succulent he looked...
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