It Always Comes Back to Flintstone

Updated May 3, 2005
Sometimes You Look for Inspiration, and Other Times Inspiration Comes to You

Sunday night we had dinner at the in-laws. While this is not an uncommon event, Sunday was special because we were having prime rib. Now even though I am a dedicated vegetarian, I knew that there was nothing I could do to save this particular cow. As such, I didn’t want its life and death to have been in vain – so the short of it is that this prime rib was delicious.

So after chowing down a few slabs of beef, I grabbed me up a bone and started going Flintstone on it. And I’m gnawing away at it, in the spirit of the alpha predator, stopping just short of eating the gristle and sucking out the marrow. In a glassy eyed, protein fueled, fugue, I drop the bone on my plate and lunge for another. Just then the true alpha predator of the family nudges me back into place.

My wife says, "You’re reaching for another?" Moving entirely on instinct I freeze like a deer caught in the headlights. She goes on, "There is still plenty left on that bone".

With the power of the beef fading away, my mind cleared for a moment and I search for an out. I say to her, "... but hon’ there is nothing left on that bone but fat and gristle".

The reply is short and leaves no room for further discussion, "Ha-rumf". So I snarf up the next bone but my previous Flintstone-like actions are replaced now with guarded actions more reminiscent of the Flintstone’s pet, Dino. Picking up on the shift in demeanor my wife is is reminded of our very own pet, Harry; "Well if you’re done with this bone, then I’ll give it to the dog", she says while picking up the offending bone.

Now I thought she might just drop it to the floor for the awaiting pooch – but I was wrong; I thought she might walk across the kitchen and drop it in his food dish – but I was wrong again; then I thought she might wrap it in foil to give to him later – but no no, once again I was wrong.

Instead, she picked up a knife and carefully cut away the fat and gristle so that the dog wouldn’t have to eat it. THIS, my dear reader, was the very same fat and gristle which only moments earlier had caused me so much personal grief.

Emboldened by the renewed surge of red meat in my bloodstream, I spoke out, "What are you doing?" I asked.

"I’m cutting that, away. I don’t want the dog to eat that ", was her reply. I got a "Ha-rumf" because I turned my nose up to the very same fat and gristle. Yes, that's right the same fat and gristle that was apparently not good enough to serve to the dog!

You know, I’m perfectly comfortable admitting that I am not the alpha-dog in the household. I know that there is a pecking order, but I had always thought that if I wasn’t number one, then I was certainly number two. But now, I don’t know where I sit anymore. I figured that the dog was the lowest member of the family, but now I’m starting to worry that I’m below the dog. No wonder he’s always sitting in my spot on the couch.

Let me know what you think.

Billo

Copyright 2005, Bill O'Reilly


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