Insulting the Meat: A Harold Story

July 2023

 

When I decided to major in Cultural Anthropology as an undergraduate, it was largely because of a charismatic professor and a desire to avoid the Organic Chemistry course required for Biology majors, but I found solace in Kurt Vonnegut. In my memory, faulty at times, he included a passage about how majoring in Anthropology had taught him many lessons. In looking for the exact quote on the Internet, here is what I found (and I do not think this was the quote I remembered all these years, but it will work for this purpose): “I chose cultural anthropology, since it offered the greatest opportunity to write high-minded balderdash “–Kurt Vonnegut.

            It occurs to me just now that “High Minded Balderdash” is a good name for any blog. However, that is not my point here. In the course of majoring in Cultural Anthropology at Southern Oregon State College (now Southern Oregon University), I came to know about a group of folks living in Africa, the Dobe ! Kung. Most people back then (long ago) knew these people in one sense only: as the stars of a film called The Gods Must Be Crazy, but I was more familiar with them through Richard B. Lee’s ethnography about them. In the time I studied Anthropology the! Kung were more than famous—they were sort of Anthro Superstars. I remember many details of the books I read and about their cultural traditions, but one story stands out: Insulting the Meat.

            As Richard Lee tells it (and this is all paraphrase dredged up from many, many years ago, so all mistakes are mine), he was thankful for his time with the Dobe! Kung and wanted to give a party, a proper send off, and so, he heard, the best thing to do was purchase a goat and roast it. Lee went to the goat farmer and picked out the biggest, fattest, and most expensive goat, and as the hour of barbeque drew near, he imagined the joy the tribe would greet his offering with…only to hear the grumbling as they arrived and saw said goat. “Oh, such a small and stringy one! I guess there wasn’t much available.” “Oh, the smallest goat I have ever seen—how will we feed everyone?” Richard Lee was perplexed, for his own eyes had told him this was the best and fattest and biggest goat, and he was feeling a bit annoyed, when finally, an elder took pity on him: “We always insult the meat, you see. The better it is, the more we insult it. It’s a compliment, actually.”

             And this takes us back to Harold the dog. Insulting the meat and this story have become a shorthand with us for talking about Harold. Anyone who knows us and knows Harold knows we never praise him much. In fact, there is a reason for this. If someone says, “Good dog!” Harold almost immediately misbehaves. Evidence? One nice older lady complimented him, and he immediately jumped up and broke her glasses. Countless ladies and gentlemen have congratulated him on walks only to see the good boy turn into a snarling black torpedo aimed at their dog. So, when Harold is being very good, we always say he is being terrible. And Harold was actually a terrible, biting, almost evil puppy, so we do have our reasons. The dog trainers told me: you have training, and you have management—learn the difference.

            All of this brings us to the beginning of July, when we first returned from the Long and Winding camping trip, and we set out on a totally normal walk. It was a regular day, us sleepy, Harold excited, and then some standing in the street to allow Robert to recycle. Yes, the street was paved in the almost purple almost blue Jacaranda blossoms, but it was just a normal day, and then Harold had something in his foot. Robert helped him and I was focused on walking up the hill and the large group of utility workers congregating there, and then Harold still had something in his foot, so Robert worked to dislodge it, and then Harold started vomiting. We turned back at the top of the hill, Harold throwing up, eventually Robert carrying him, and got him to the kitchen where he collapsed. His gums were gunmetal gray, he couldn’t drink or stand, and we carried Harold to the car.

            What followed was the longest and shortest drive to the Emergency Vet, and confirmation that Harold had likely been stung by a bee and was allergic and in anaphylactic shock. Over the next three days Harold was in the hospital—his liver numbers rising and finally, thankfully, falling, and at the same time my father ended up in the hospital, so when we would call the vet we would hear Harold complaining in the background, and when I talked to Paula about Dad, I would hear Dad complaining in the background, a sort of weird symmetry. But, miracle of miracles, they were both OK. I thank the universe for that.

            And Harold came home and went with Aunty Sophy to buy shoes, and Dad came home, and I got to visit him, and all was well. That said, we are still insulting the meat, because now we know once again how precious life is and our companions are.

And Harold has shoes!