Mystery meal raises questions

by Margaret Browne

Things are getting real cozy here at Casa de Margarita. Humans lovin’ cats, cats lovin’ gerbils, Tios lovin’ chinchillas and chinchillas, well, chinchillas lovin’ everybody. At least now they are, in their own special way.

The other day, my hermana de casa, mi Señora, a friend of hermana and I all ate lunch together, a rare treat in the modern family’s busy schedule. (Both Madre and hermana are named Ana, so from now on I will refer to them as the two Anas. Or Baby Ana and Mama Ana.)

It was an enjoyable affair during which we discussed hating holding hands with our moms in public, why Halloween is the best holiday ever (like ever!), that for the past seven years or so I’ve been saying “mañana� like an idiot (sorry if I offended any idiots out there), and ended it all with some tongue and lip boggling trabalenguas. I will know I’ve truly become a Spaniard when I can perform such oratory feats. (Look at all the Spanish you’re learning—casa, hermana, trabalengua. We’ll all be fluent by the end of this. You can thank me later. And by later, I mean now is fine.)

As we were all getting snug as a kitten in a mitten, I revealed to Mama Ana how much I love a.) trying new foods, especially unusual foods and b.) meat (insert sexual joke…you delightful perverts you!). She told me expansive accounts of all of the meats available in España (hee). I especially enjoyed her mime of avestruz, which she performed when she thought I didn’t know what it meant (either ostrich or fairy meat). Seeing my eagerness, she promised she would supply me with some interesting meat (hee).

The next day, I came home to find lunch on the table, smelling of sweet succulence. It was a meat dish with a lot of sauce and rice and tasting maybe like chicken or rabbit. Or chickabbit, Later I saw gray fur and many little bones in the trash, but I wasn’t too bothered.

Stuffed like a late family dog, I took a little siesta and arose to play with the chinchillas per usual. But none of them were there. Not even Colita, the only named chinchi because he is the baby. Though there is Roger, but his name is more of a pet name, like honey or sweetheart. Or Kevin.

But Kevin Rogerton was not to be seen, nor any of the chinchillaz crew. Had they achieved their dreams of getting off their feet, moving into their own apartment and starting up their own art supplies store? To be called Chinchillarts?

Abruptly, a twist in my belly, like a chinchilla specter writhing in my guts.

Mother. Of. Pearl. The mystery meat.

Yesterday, I ate my pets, and I am probably still digesting them. At least what I didn’t throw up.

You fools! No one cooked or ate the chinchillas! It has, however, been a couple of days since I’ve seen Tío Angel.

I’m not too fazed.