I'll Pass on Seconds, Thanks

Dinner tonight was less than satisfying. Lydia had her roughest post-surgery night last night, and she was whiny and hurting much of the day. By this evening she was doing better and wanted hot dogs for dinner, and since hot dogs are indeed on the doctor's list of sore-throat friendly foods, I was quick to oblige. As for me, I opted for a turkey sandwich instead. I am especially glad I did, or at least especially glad I ate something other than what the kids ate.

"Mommy, are we eating an animal?" Seth asked.

"Yes," I replied. I am accustomed to this question. I get it at least once every meal these days. This morning, for instance, we established that Cheerios are NOT an animal.

"Where's the dog's mouth?" he asked.

I choked a bit. "Hot dogs are not made from dogs. We don't eat dogs," I said, not quite so accustomed to that question. "These hot dogs are made from cows."

"Am I eat a animal?" Lydia asked.

"Yes," I said, my shoulders slumping just a bit.

"Am I eat a cow?" she asked.

"Yes. Yes, you are eating a cow, Lydia." Suddenly my sandwich didn't taste so good.

"Did someone kill the cow so we could eat it?" Seth asked.

"Yes," I murmured, "but let's talk about that later."

Seth inspected his hot dog carefully. "Where's the heart?"

Lydia gently touched the chopped up pieces of hot dog on her plate. "I petting my cow," she said.
Do you think PETA put them up to this?