Every evening, when it’s dinnertime for Taxi and I open a small can of food to mix in with his regular kibble, I am compelled to sniff its contents before forking it over into his bowl and blending it all together into a magnificent feast. He stares at me with a mixture of consternation and impatience, and just as he opens his mouth to tell me I’d better knock it off if I know what’s good for me, I preempt him and tell him not to worry, I’m not going to eat it.
“Have you forgotten I’m a vegetarian?” I say.
“How could I?” he says, nodding toward my brand new stainless steel double-door subzero tofurigerator.
But still, I am tempted. Why, just yesterday, as I was dipping the fork into a can of doggie-style (*blush*) chicken and pasta, I thought, for the splittest of seconds, that I would sneak a li’l taste, just for the heck of it. So what if I haven’t eaten red meat since 1979 or poultry since 1990? So what if, although I’ve been tempted by the mouth-watering aroma of steak and barbecued chicken and bacon and have been offered tastes of these forbidden non-fruits by roving gangs of meat-wielding thugs, I’ve managed to hold out and not give in to these base urges? I could still be tempted to abandon my longstanding vegetarianism by a simple can of dog food, right?
“Don’t you dare,” Taxi said as I eyed the luscious lump of chicken and plump pasta on the fork, poised above the kibble waiting in the bowl. “And no fair offering me a trade, either, because you know dogs can’t have tofu. OR that tempeh crap.”
In the end, I heeded his warning. I mean, giving in to this limp temptation would hardly be worth it, especially when I’ve been tempted by much more luscious threats before. This would have been like being chaste for aeons and then deciding, on a whim, to “get it on” with Willie Aames after having passed on Olivier Martinez.
It’s just not gonna happen.