Shameless in Gaza

In a Facebook discussion, yesterday, about certain foul-smelling sausages, I posted a quote from one of my books (Sausages: A Global History). It was, “French Prime Minister Édouard Marie Herriot, in the years before World War II, said, ‘Politics is like an andouillette—it should smell a little like shit, but not too much.’”

Normally, in formal—and even informal—writing, I eschew foul language. Unless, of course, I’m quoting someone else, or a fictional character needs to swear to reveal his/her true off-colors, or—let’s be honest—it gives me a chance to shock and/or titillate my reader.

(N.B. “reader” is not plural—because what are the odds that more than one person will ever read it?)

Anyway, one Facebook friend responded, “I’m disappointed in you for bringing this to us. Like the time my cat brought me a dead mouse: She meant well, but I really wished she hadn’t.”

Rather than feeling chastened, or even remotely remorseful, her comment just reminded me of an incident of feline generosity from my own past.

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De Rerun Naturae

Editor’s Note: Sanscravat likes to talk about the natural world, even though he hasn’t really left the comfort of his chair and writing materials in decades. One of his literary idols is the nineteenth/early-twentieth-century naturalist, John Burroughs. Like Burroughs, he often uses the details of the natural world to explore aspects of human nature (a subject that doesn’t come naturally—so to speak—to him). In this, he has more in common with the Romantic Era than our modern scientific age.

We suspect that drawing attention to his Romantic side would make him profoundly uncomfortable (and it amuses us to think that it will happen the first time he sees these words in print).

If it wasn’t for spiders’ unfortunate habit of littering the premises with cobwebs and the empty shucks of their six-legged prey, we could easily coexist in peace.

Back when I lived in a cabin in the woods, each year (in late winter/early spring) a host of smallish brown spiders would emerge from the woodwork. One year, I caught about a hundred and fifty of ‘em (if needed, I can consult my journals for the exact number). They were entirely harmless except for their tendency to look for small openings in which to hide.

One night, while nearly asleep, I felt a little tickle, nothing much. When I tried to scratch it with my finger, I wound up crushing one of those spiders.

Inside my ear.

The crunch and squirt woke me up almost as fast as the time I stepped on half of a frog that had been left for me—quite thoughtfully—by one of my cats.

I was, at the time, wearing my favorite pair of bare feet.

The precise memory of cold, moist amphibian innards squeezing up between one’s toes does not fade with time, I might add.

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