I was going to say this Cricket story stuck in my craw – the alliteration tickled – so I asked Carll to check where one’s craw might be located. Neither Google, AI, nor the OED (Oxford English Dictionary) made this simple. Throat is Carll’s best guess, from the Old English craga, but curiously, you and I – fellow mammals I’m assuming – don’t possess them. Birds’ craws (hunters noticed centuries back) prevent shards and pebbles from descending into the digestion, where they might wreak havoc. Whether this craw is the furcula (or “merry-thought” or, in our lingo, “wishbone”) Carll’s iffy about, anatomy never having been his strong suit. The reason mammals don’t have craws is we don’t fly, something about the clavicle, which Carll kept getting confused with clavichord, which didn’t help.
Cricket in one’s craw sounds distressful enough, keeping in mind that Cricket wasn’t an insect but a dog, a wirehair pointer bitch about my age (gulp), when she met her untimely end at the hands of a future Governor of the great state of South Dakota (look it up – I had to). The story was recounted in Governor Kristi Noem’s campaign bio which means it isn’t fake news dredged up by the dreaded media to discredit her but an accomplishment she adjudges worthy of accolades. Her fearless brio shooting an unarmed puppy for misbehaving proves her suitability to occupy our nation’s (indeed, the world’s) highest office. No, I’m not making this up – I just got here (nearly fourteen months ago) – and am “just a dog” – as if being human were a plus.
Henry, in other words.
The story goes like this. The family of Future Governor Noem (FGN) did a side business in recreational pheasant slaughter for folks who could pony up. Trained dogs flushed out coveys of that slow stupid bird for chortling beer-guzzlers to bag by the brace. Such fun! Jubilant Cricket, lacking training, got ahead of her meant-to-be mentors. In FGN’s telling:
Within an hour of walking the first field, Cricket had blown past the group, gotten too far ahead, and flushed up birds out of range. She was out of her mind with excitement, chasing all those birds and having the time of her life. The only problem was there were no hunters nearby to shoot the birds she scared up.
Cricket’s jubilation was spoiling the enjoyment of these weekend warriors who were paying FGN’s folks good money for the sport of genocide. Bad, bad Cricket.
The pup did other annoying things that day, till FGN, well, she’d about had it!
Eventually I got my hand on her collar, and she whipped around to bite me. Shocked, I dragged her back to my pickup and threw her inside the cab. I … slammed the door, and faced the music.
… When I got back into my truck, Cricket was sitting in the passenger seat, looking like she just won the lottery. The picture of pure joy.
I hated that dog.
Don’t know about you, but “a picture of pure joy,” sounds adorable, not deplorable, but then we’re not South Dakotans. Bravely, FGN dragged Cricket to the gravel pit and shot her dead on the happiest day of her life. FGN for President, at least!
Politics for me is no never-mind, almost stupider than pheasant slaughter, but canine cruelty sticks in my hypothetical craw. When God made Mankind, what was He thinking? Joy is not a crime, hatred is not virtue, snuffing the innocent for not knowing what they’ve never been taught is despicable, not creditable, by any recorded creed. I mean, really!