Clyde will eat just about anything. He is, after all, a dog. So, when he was given his first doggy-tennis-ball-knockoff of the new house, he spent very little time studying it
before he decided it was good enough to chomp down on.
Clyde would rather have a nice, juicy steak, though. Or a big slab of turkey breast, or a pot of chicken soup with nothing much besides chicken... He's a sensible sort of animal, when you get right down to it. He knows what he likes, and it isn't tofurkey.
The rest of us have to defend our choice of dishes to the likes of hypocrites and sanctimonious creeps.
EATAPETA day is coming soon. Meryl Yourish has the when and wherefore. (HT: Laurence Simon) I intend to invite Clyde, here, as well as all the kitties and willing humans I can find, in a nice, big, burger party (hold the salad ingredients! this is for the humanities!).
If you're in the area and would like to be included -- maybe we can make this a real event, not just me overeating and overfeeding the beasties -- let me know, & we can make real plans (not just the ones I fashion in my own little universe where I've already won the lottery and Dolph has abandoned his Swedish princess bride and sworn his undying love to me).
The steaks are high in this game. Isn't that right, Clyde?