While I’ve become a little more adventurous in my old age, I’m pretty much a meat and three veg kind of guy.
I’ll branch out for a curry at the club when they’re on special, and I’ll drool over a good bit of barramundi.
I’m not much for a plate of bugs or spiders.
I’ve copped a web or two in the face while making my way through the garden, but that’s about as close as I’ll come to eating one.
Those travel contests on television throw them in for shock value, but I really don’t see the problem.
Eating anything that’s a pest could well be seen as a good thing, and if you’re born and raised in a place that eats spiders for entree, followed by a main course of rat or snake, then so be it.
Not my cup of tea, and for most of us unadventurous suburban types, we’re probably all pretty much the same.
It’s probably hypocritical for any of us who are happy to devour cow, pig, sheep, or any other type of animal to be critical of the type of animal others choose to throw into their diet.
Wags doesn’t mind the odd cockroach, and who can blame him. Dare I suggest it’s as much about the challenge for him as it is the flavour.
My furry friend has spent most of Summer in front of the fan, lying on his back with one leg inside his bed and the other cocked as high as he can get it to allow the breeze to forge a path along his stomach and chest.
We’ll go for walks early in the morning and at dusk, at which point I wish Wags was as good with mosquitoes as he is with cockroaches.
Never mind, if in times of extreme heat he finds stimulation in the backyard hunting and demolishing his prey, then so be it.
The poor dog likes a more moderate climate, but I can assure him we won’t be moving from our City of Logan oasis any time soon.
He’s more a penguin than a lizard, which brings me to something I don’t – and probably will never – understand.
I was reading recently about the capture of alleged criminals who were catching and packing native lizards and other Australian reptiles to export overseas.
Now, these poor little critters were being stuffed into crevices for a journey that may or may not have seen them arrive at their Hong Kong destination alive.
I’m not sure if those at the other end were planning to eat our native critters, or keep them in a cage to show off to their drinking buddies.
Either way, it’s got elephant tusk, bear’s paw, tiger’s penis, or any other cruel soup mix some people feel will cure their erectile dysfunction.
Anyone who thinks it’s okay to sacrifice an animal for such a self-absorbed purpose deserves every bit of whatever it is they’re trying to cure.
In some countries – including the Whiney Wayne household – they call it karma.
Cruelty to animals gets well and truly on my goat. It sends shivers up and down my spine. And when I raise it at dinner parties, foam starts to build in my mouth.
However, before vegans start knocking at my door telling me that all creatures should be treasured and cherished the same way, I’m not inclined to disagree.
I’ve looked the odd cow in the eye and tried to convince myself the rump I’d had the night before was roadkill.
Regardless, before you start burning Wayne effigies in front of my house, you’re just going to have to provide an old man who grew up in a different era the indulgence to argue that a supermarket roast chook is an unfortunate part of the cycle in which we live.
Hey Wanda, can you put that roast you’ve got defrosting on the bench back in the freezer?
I’m suddenly feeling like an Indian tofu curry tonight.
