The Right's recent attempt to distract from Mitt Romney's dog abuse episode by mocking the President for having eaten dog meat while he was a child in Indonesia brought back to mind an incident from my family's history: the time my grandfather ate a dog, and did so, not out of cruelty, but because it was the civilized thing to do.
My grandfather followed the sea. He left land early, running away from home after the fourth grade and signing on as a cabin boy during the last days of the clipper ships. He finished his education at sea and rose in the ranks of the Merchant Marines. He served in the Navy as a first mate during World War I, went back to the Merchant Marines after the war, and returned to the Navy to serve as a captain during World War II. Once his ship was torpedoed and he spent 11 days adrift in a lifeboat before being rescued, along with all his men.
I didn't know him. He died when I was two. What I know of him comes from listening to stories my grandmother and mother told. In time, my grandmother entrusted some of his letters and his poetry to me to take care of. He wrote a lot of poetry, mostly religious, and his letters from overseas came addressed to my mother, my grandmother, and even the family dog. When he wrote to my mother he wrote in the voice of the ship's dog, telling my four, five, six year old mother little stories about life on the ship, about flying fish, the aurora borealis, the cook who slipped him treats when the captain wasn't looking.
To my grandmother he wrote reassuringly about the escorts and their protection from the u-boats, his frustrations with bureaucracy, the ship's cat that gave them warning to take cover from V-1's because it could hear the engines when human ears couldn't. He wrote about small incidents that reassured everyone at home he and his men were safe.
The Incident with the Dog came from no letter, but from my grandmother. To me it illustrates the kind of person he must have been, and is entirely in keeping with the impression I've gleaned from his letters and poetry.
In 1944-45 he took part in the Allied blockade of Belgium, assigned to guard the approaches to Antwerp. At first, he was supposed to be docked in Antwerp itself but, once he informed the harbormaster that his ship was storing enough munitions that, if they were hit by a stray V-1, they would blow the city off the map and create a new deep water port, the authorities let him move to more open water and greater safety for everyone.
During his time in Belgium he was lonely and homesick, and missed his family. So he found a surrogate family, and "adopted" them. Weekends, off-duty times, holidays--they gave him a place to be, and he made sure they were protected. He was in a position of some authority, and was able to ensure that they had flour and sugar, that the children had shoes and coats for winter, and all that. Over the time he was in Belgium, they grew close.
Then came the day he received orders that his ship was to return to the US. His Belgian family asked him to come for a final meal, so they could properly thank him for his kindnesses and pledge their friendship (a friendship that endured, my grandmother said, for the rest of his life).
He was very surprised when they served meat for dinner.
In Belgium in 1945, meat was a rare commodity, almost impossible for civilians to come by. But there it was--meat.
Then he noticed the family dog was missing.
Yes, they killed and cooked their pet so they could honor my grandfather properly.
According to my grandmother, my grandfather ate a great many odd (by American standards) meals during his travels. He lived by the code that a good guest eats what is offered, no matter what it is. It's essential--to do anything less would be disrespectful and uncivilized.
She also said it was probably the hardest meal he ever ate.
But he did it. The fact is, that's what you do when you're in someone else's house.
So when the Romney campaign beats up on the President for having eaten Fido, I think of my grandfather in a Belgian house in 1945, facing down a plate of dog meat and a family that loved him enough to sacrifice their pet to honor him.
I don't think he would have complained about the cookies, either.