Meat in a culture-clash sandwich

BY ALAN CLARKE

I've always been an animal lover - roasted, stir-fried, grilled. Or sometimes, as with the dozen Bluff oysters I scored last week as a special treat, raw.

Not that I'm a hard-core carnivore. I once tried the vegetarian trip for several years on the trot without noticing any tangible effect, other than in the wallet.

These days, with two committed vegans in our house of four, meat is again rarely on the menu.

As with many Kiwi youngsters, animals - dogs especially - have padded their way through every chapter of my life.

Preschool, there was Joe, my grandparents' cocker spaniel.

Tyke, the incredibly horny, full-of-life foxy cross bounced along when I was seven, and was followed by Laska, part-samoyed, and Kim, the God-knows what, who stuck around at home long after I'd struck out on my own.

As my little family grew, there was Sloopy, the english setter who burst through a shed wall one night in the heat of desperation and produced 11 puppies a few months later, then Jamie the bearded collie.

Griffin the cairnie has now been with us for nearly 15 years and, while increasingly deaf and becoming blind, still seems to enjoy his four walks a day. Then there's Rinpoche, or Che for short, the passive-aggressive neurotic but lovely tibetan terrier.

Almost the same number of cats have also played their part in our lives, but to my mind have had a secondary role unlike with my son who, at one point, was dad to 40 feline dependants, all under his roof at the same time ... but that's another story.

So, where am I going with all this?

To Mangere, of course, and Paea Taufa's backyard barbecue.

It was Mr Taufa who decided to bop his part pit-bull terrier on the head, slit its throat and drop it on the flames.

As the story goes, the Fire Service was called out in response to reports of heavy smoke and found the Tongan delicacy char-grilling nicely.

They put out the fire, retrieved the half-cooked pooch and called in the SPCA, which gave Mr Taufa a talking to about Kiwi culture but opted to take the matter no further, if only because he had not broken any law.

Even Agriculture Minister John Carter - whose ministry, surely, is complicit in animal torture - got stuck in.

Predictably, talkback radio callers were barking mad over the story.

Always up for some cheap publicity, Hell Pizza opted to cash in, knocking up the billboard slogan, "At least our brownies won't eat your pet dog".

I don't know what I find more distasteful, the racist yapping or the hypocrisy.

The dog had been Mr Taufa's cousin's, according to the news reports, and he took over caring for it as it had become too skinny.

He opted to put it down, not after fattening it specially, but because it had became a nuisance - and experience suggests "nuisance" pit-bulls represent a whole lot of muscle, teeth and grief.

"My wife did not like that dog, it was too messy and sometimes he tried to bite some people that came home," Mr Taufa said.

"I didn't know I couldn't cook the dog. In Tonga, any time there I cook the dog and it is okay. Dog is good food."

Well, good on him for doing the right thing. Imagine the outrage if the beast had savaged the postie, a passing jogger or a child.

Instead of slapping his fingers, the SPCA should give him a uniform, a roving commission and a portable barbie. The greenies should throw in a special citation too, for living the reuse, recycle, waste-not, want-not ideal.

What Mr Taufa did is duplicated on farms up and down the land, every day. If anything, his method of dispatch was more humane than some. How many home-kills involve a thump on the head before slitting the jugular?

Growing up in rural New Zealand, I was never under any illusions about where food comes from, unlike today's kids who might assume it appears automatically plastic-wrapped at Westmeats or in the supermarket.

I might have felt vaguely uncomfortable watching old Mr McLauchlan sawing away at a two-tooth's throat with a blunt knife, or watching headless chooks flop and jerk about our yard. Talk about gore on the lawn. Or helping prepare a big old pig - a species at least as intelligent as dogs, they say to be butchered, swung into a scalding hot outdoor bath on a chain. But it was not a subject to be discussed with our elders. It was just the way of the world.

Looking into an animal's eyes at the moment of death is an unforgettable experience. It is exactly the same as when a person's life ends. The life force drains away, the spirit, if you like, departs, the living entity becomes an empty carcass. It reminds us of the interconnectedness of life, and the ultimate fate all share.

Most rural children have pet lambs which end up, not going "away to get married", but as Sunday roast. My grandchildren had Cupcake and Naa-naa, the pigs, last year, which ended up in the freezer, and last week two more arrived. Their names escape me. Lambs, turkeys, deer ... an endless procession of animals have come briefly into their lives, and then departed in order to put meat on the table.

If dog is on the menu among our Korean, Tongan or some Chinese friends, what of it? Lambs and calves are cute, seals sea rats to some and animal welfare poster subjects to others. What makes one animal sacred and another fair game for all? It doesn't make sense to me.

I once rated Hell Pizza for its witty irreverence, but it's crossed a line and lost this customer for good. It's Gianni's or Stefano's from now on for me.

As for Mr Taufa, he's welcome over at my place for a barbecue anytime. We'll get out the guitars in the time-honoured way for a singalong.

You know the tune - one, two three:

Throw another dog on the barbie
Cook me up a pit-bull and some cat
Pinscher mince or a little rottie hot dog
Spoodle stew, there's nothing wrong with that
Shepherd's pie takes on a whole new meaning
Sausage dog's prepackaged can't you see?So throw another dog on the barbie, baby
and stop ol' Mr Carter hounding me.

- © Fairfax NZ News