Can you keep a secret?

Promise you won’t tell Kathy!

Last week she went to see “Shrek the Musical” for a second time at the Great Plains Theatre.

The first time she took our granddaughter Gemma. The second time her mother Doreen accompanied her.

(She thinks Lord Farquaad did some adlibbing.)

What I did was bought me the biggest ribeye I could find and grilled it. It was perfect with some curly fries.

I took a picture of the meal with the idea of posting it under the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) post of the billboard “I’m ME, Not MEAT. See the Individual. Go Vegan.”

PETA plans to place the billboard near the crash site on Kansas Highway 4 where six cows died in a wreck.

Apparently Kansas isn’t the only place PETA has posted this billboard where cattle were killed in crashes.

By the time I found the post, the steak was half gone.

I feel sorry for vegans actually.

I once worked with one and it was often difficult to go out for lunch as most restaurants didn’t have vegan meals on the menu.

“I’ll have the Sante Fe chicken salad and, by the way, hold the chicken.”

And I don’t think most vegetarians would agree with PETA, the Humane Society of the United States or the Animal Liberation Front that want to give animals individual rights and end animal ownership, including dogs, cats, goldfish and caimans. Maybe snakes should be set free to eat mice, which is a type of meat.


Growing up on a hobby farm, we often treated our animals as individuals.

We often gave them names. Elsie and Ada were the two dairy cows.

“Look, Mom. Elsie gave us chocolate milk,” I said after she stepped into the milk bucket, turning it brown.

We sat on a one-legged stool listening to the Mamas and Papas sing “Puff the Magic Dragon” on the transistor radio.

We had a cream separator and Mom made real butter.

But let’s get one thing clear, that was our meal ticket. Whether Sparky ended up at the sale barn or in our freezer from Kerb’s Locker in Hope, that was food on the table, clothes on our backs and gas for the furnace. (We didn’t have air conditioning then).

I’ve said this before. Dad got baby chickens mail order. They came in boxes. Cute little things, too, until they got bigger.

But we had eggs in the morning and pan-fried chicken once a week.

So, yes, our animals were treated well. And, like all good friends, we still enjoyed “having them over for dinner.”

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