He Is Still A Good Little Eater

Dinner is at 5:00.

“What is this?”

“Chicken.”

“What’s it made of?”

“Chicken.”

Dylan, three, almost four years old, looks at me sideways.  He was born an old soul, and he scans my eyes for signs of deception.

“Chickens?” he says.  “Bok bok bok?  Chickens?”

“Yes.”

He picks up the leg he’s been gnawing on.  “I’m so sowwy,” he says.  He kisses it lightly, then continues his meal.

The next night is more of the same.

“What is this?”

“Beef.”

“What’s it made of?”

“Cow.”

He points out the window, over the county road that divides our home and the farm across from us.  “Cows?” he says.  “Moo-cows?”

“Yes.”

He looks down at his hamburger steak, pushes the onions and mushrooms off.  “I’m so sowwy,” he says.  And he leans over and kisses it.  I cut it up for him, and he kisses every subsequent bite, something I find equally amusing and disturbing. 

He eats it all.

The third night, there is a slice of ham each.

Dylan spears one of the pieces on his plate.  “What’s this?”

“Ham.”

“Yeah,” he says, “but what’s it made of?”

“Pig.”

He takes it in and is silent for a moment.  “These animoes,” he says.  “We kee-ew them and eat them?”

I nod.  “Well,” I say.  “We don’t.  Farmers raise them, then they’re killed and cut up and sold to us in stores.  Remember?  We bought it at the supermarket.”

Dylan stares at the ham on his fork.  Blink.  Blink.  

“You know,” I say.  “There are lots of people who don’t eat meat, ever, not just on the days they can’t afford it.  They don’t eat meat because they feel it’s wrong.  We could do that, if you want.  We could stop eating meat.”

Dylan looks at the ham , looks at me, smiles.

“No, that’s aw-wight,” he says.  “I like meat.”