The Limit

I got excited about weight loss the other day.

We needed to take Max to the vet.  A Rottweiler, he's a big old guy.  He's going on 12 and weighs in at 106, down a few pounds from his usual 110.

We had been in the front office for a few minutes when in came a rather skittish breed.  There was bound to be trouble so we elected to walk over to another part of the office, where we could get some separation.  (You Gotta Keep 'Em Separated.)

As we paced back and forth, we spied the electronic scale that the vet uses to weigh animals.  Beth says, "Why don't you check your weight?"  Well, I wasn't weighted down with heavy blue jeans or boots; I was runnin' light.  So it sounded like a good idea even though I had checked my weight about 5 days earlier at the house.

I climbed aboard, and turning to the electronic readout on the wall I was ... well, surprised.  At the house I became aware that I was putting on pounds and was approaching my limit.  You know, The Limit at which you just have to do something.

"One ninety nine," I exclaimed.  Quickly followed -- from me -- was the assessment of "That's not right."  It was way too light.  And I knew I couldn't have lost that much weight in the few days that had passed since I last weighed.

But I was hopeful.  Pitifully hopeful.

Then Beth brought me down to earth.  "The scale probably doesn't go over 200 pounds," she guessed.  I thought on that for a few seconds and, by gosh, I'll bet she was right.  After all, how many pet dogs weigh over 200 pounds?

Deflated, I waited until I got home and stepped gingerly upon the scales.  Uh huh.  The weight had miraculously reappeared and I slunk back into reality.  I had to "Take It To The Limit, One More Time."  But now it's time to get serious.

Reflections Upon Whale Killings

I feel the need to weigh in on the controversy concerning the practice of Faroe Islanders killing pilot whales.

First, these are MY people, so I'm a little protective of them.  I have their blood running deep in my veins.  My father was born in the Faroe Islands, and I have been there twice: once with my father, and another time to return his ashes to his birthplace.

On my first visit, we came upon a recent whale kill in a village near my father's hamlet of Nes on the southernmost island of Suduroy.  What was remarkable was the fact that there were no "bodies" of dead whales on the beach where the kill had occurred.  All that was left were the heads, spines and tails of these small, non-endangered whales.  The villagers had taken every edible scrap for their larders.  The birds and crabs would soon dispose of any leftovers.

So it's important to understand that the Faroe Islanders eat every bit of what they kill.  One could argue that Faroe Islanders -- in this day and age -- do not need to kill the whales.  But you have to remember that protein in this remote region of the North Atlantic comes mainly from the sheep they raise.  They do not grow cattle for food.  Cows provide much-needed fresh milk and butter.  Really, the only other viable crop is potato.  Fishing is a big industry in the Faroes, but the catches made from the modern trawler and factory ships is destined for export.  I'm sure some of it is available locally.  But I would imagine the price of fish is inflated simply because most of it is meant to leave the Islands.

Therefore it's logical that they should harvest a school of pilot whales that might happen upon coastal waters.  But it's not an everyday occurrence.  With its incredibly steep cliffs and rocky shores, there are only a few harbors with beaches where whales can be herded ashore.  The Faroe Islanders have been taking this "gift" for over a thousand years.  Especially in days of old, a whale kill -- shared among all the villagers -- meant the difference between good times and bad.  Even the old and infirm, the elderly who now were too far along in years to be able to work for a living, would share in the good fortune of a village whale kill.  Today the practice of sharing in the bounty continues.  Whale meat and blubber are shared for free not only with the immediate villagers, but if there is enough to go round, also nearby villages or even the entire island.  Every man, woman, child and old-age pensioner receive a portion.  The villagers' generosity is extended even to visitors who might have happened to be present at the time of the harvest.

I grow tired of the hypocrites who use terms like "blood sport," "slaughter," and "rite of passage" to describe infrequent harvests taken by the Faroe Islanders.  They take great offense to the sharp knives that slit the whales' throats and the blood in the water.  But do they consider how the beef that makes up their hamburgers and the pork that goes into their sausage is killed?  I think not.  If all that complained consumed only vegetables, I could understand their feelings -- even their outrage.  But they are too many to be true vegetarians.

Like respectful hunters or caring farmers, Faroe Islanders have always taken pride in a humane kill.  It is quick and clean.  Today a specialized blade is used that severs the whale's spine in a fraction of a second.

I ask that the Faroe Islanders be left in peace, to remember and enjoy a life and time as it once was.  It is their land, their ocean, and their heritage.

They have earned it.