Spare a thought today for Wilbur the pig, whose fate remains undecided in Collingwood.
In case you've missed it, Wilbur is a pet potbellied pig, about 50 pounds and not likely to get much bigger. He's about four months old, and is now in his third home, with owners who appear to be very dedicated to him.
There might never have been a problem except for questions raised by neighbours, which led to a review of the town's pet bylaw. It turns out pigs are not allowed. Last night, town council voted not to add pigs to the list. They will, however, hold a vote next week on whether to make an exception for this particular pig.
So, potbellied pigs are not allowed. Neither are giraffes or chickens. While I think a giraffe would be an awesome pet, I think I would prefer chickens. They wouldn't really be pets, though. They would make my eggs and later in life, they would become my dinner. Right now, I get my chickens from a guy on a farm outside town; I like to tell people I can meet my chickens before I eat my chickens. But I would love, love, love to be an urban chicken farmer. Wouldn't it be great to sidle out the back door of a Saturday morning to gather the makings of an omlette?
During one of our long, rambling, beach-side conversations on our trip last month, one of my girlfriends got to talking about her recently-passed-on pooch. She asserted that not only would she have eaten her dog, she would also like to have made a muff out of his hide. She bemoaned that she didn't know anyone who knows how to do such a thing, because she thought a muff would be a much better tribute than an urn of ashes on the mantle. She seemed deadly serious about it.
I would never consider eating my very spoiled, precious and pampered dog, Emma, but the Wilbur situation coupled with my buddy's opinions got me thinking: why are some animals allowed under the covers, while others become dinner?
And would my darling Emma be as sweet sauteed on a plate as she is cuddled on the couch?