It has been six? no, seven? oh, eight! years since the cat has died, but the girl is still in the shop where they used to buy the mince (of kangaroo – and that’s what did the cat in in the end, and led her along the cat-prozac path – don’t feed your cat kangaroo).
The girl was young then, and not old now. Her nails are still chewed, her hair is still cropped short. Does the smell of roo mince follow her home? She wears an apron smudged with wipes of meat, a chain with a cross of gold, and the smile of someone who hopes, believes. There is more to life than asking: mince or chunks?
When I was still at school, I once had a summer job at the local smallgoods factory (packing bacon and stuff into those cryovac packs.
I can tell you that yes, the meat smell does follow you home. I made a heck of a lot of money that summer but I’ll never do that again!
(I also won’t eat manufactured meat)
Why shouldn’t you feed them kangaroo? (Not that I do, except when they ask me for a bit of my steak.)
My brother worked in a smallgoods/sausage factory for a while. It was good for a couple of laughs at family gatherings, but I think he was happy to move on.
I think kangaroo meat doesn’t have enough fat.
The point of meat is the fat. Yummy, yummy fat.