mals were food—you just noticed one day that the cow you’d been scratching behind the ears last week was now on a sesame bun between two slices of cheddar. Simple math: animals go in, dinner comes out.
Aunt May had one hard rule: don’t name the animals. Naturally, being the obedient child I was, I named every single one of them. What’s the difference between calling a cow #8305 from its ear tag or Delores? Either way, she was bound for the grill. Personally, I think Delores tastes better than #8305. Adds character.
I grew up eating Cuddles stew and Betsy sandwiches like it was the most normal thing in the world. If you’ve never slathered mayo on a piece of Wonder Bread and topped it with slices of your “best friend” Betsy, then clearly, you weren’t raised right.
So of course, I raised my kids the same way. My son wanted meat rabbits. Fine. We picked some does and a fine buck for breeding. They named him “Flopsy.” Cute, right? I didn’t see a problem. He wasn’t meant for the pot—he had a romantic career ahead of him. Flopsy was supposed to be the Don Juan of rabbits, the Hugh Hefner of hutches, the Barry White of bunnies.
But Mother Nature has no respect for career paths. One night something tried to break into the cage, busted the door, and in the morning I found Flopsy under the hutch with a broken back. So much for romance. He went from Playboy Bunny Mogul to Campbell’s Special of the Day.
The kids were inconsolable. Snot, tears, the whole ugly cry. When I served Flopsy stew, they refused at first. “We can’t eat our pet!” they wailed. I told them firmly, “This is what rabbits are for.” Eventually, they each took one tiny bite—faces scrunched up like they were being forced to swallow poison. Then, like clockwork, the magic happened:
“Can we (sob) have (sob, sob) more Flopsy stew?!”
Folks, nothing prepares you for the sight of a child weeping uncontrollably while simultaneously shoveling meat into their mouth like they’re at a Vegas buffet. It was tragic. It was hilarious. It was farm life in one scene.
Fast forward a few years, and the grandkids were continuing the tradition. They named everything. Jimmy the pig. Ron the cow. And they’d ask for Jimmy sausage or Ron burgers with all the casual cheer of kids ordering Happy Meals.
But then came Wilbur.
We bought six piglets—one for the freezer, one for a pig roast, and four to sell. Naturally, they named the runt Wilbur, because of course they did. Charlotte’s Web had ruined an entire generation.
When pig roast day came, Wilbur was the perfect size. Goldilocks herself couldn’t have picked better. So we roasted him whole, as you do. What I neglected to do was warn the grandkids that Wilbur was going to come out of that roaster looking. . . well. . . like Wilbur, only extra crispy. It just never occurred to me.
When Jim opened the roaster lid, it was like we had just unveiled Satan himself. The children screamed—screamed—like we’d set Disneyland on fire. These weren’t normal screams. These were movie-quality horror screams. Exorcist screams. Neighbors probably peeked out their windows and wondered if we were filming a low-budget slasher flick called Night of the Pork.
I swear I saw one of my grandkids’ souls leave their body when Wilbur’s little snout poked through the steam. You know you’ve messed up when a seven-year-old looks at you like you just personally murdered Santa Claus.
They refused to eat. Refused! Wouldn’t even touch a roll from the table, like it might have “Wilbur essence” on it. Jim had to drive to the store for hot dogs—which, let’s be honest, are basically mystery pig parts ground together with hope and lies—and somehow those were fine. “Oh, this? A mashed-up collection of Wilburs from around the world? Sure, we’ll eat twelve.”
To this day, I think they’re still traumatized. They are all full-grown adults now, most with kids of their own, but you so much as mention “pig roast,” and their eyes twitch like they’re having a flashback.
And poor Flopsy? My daughter still tells people, “When I was a kid, my mom packed me sandwiches for school lunch made from my pet rabbit.” She says it with the same tone other people reserve for recounting childhood trauma involving creepy clowns or a house fire.
I don’t even try to deny it. Because she’s right.
