‘You know my cow got bit by a snake,’ I said.

Papa nodded. ‘Yep,’ he said.

‘Mr Parish had to shoot her with his gun.’

‘Yep, I know. That’s called a mercy killing.’

I considered for a moment. Mr Parish had used the term euthanasia.

‘Herman Melville says whales are like elephants, but bigger. He says elephants are like dogs when you compare them with whales. In size. Like if a whale was an elephant, an elephant would be a dog.’

‘Sounds about right,’ said Papa. He kept looking towards the kitchen as if he had a pot on the stove.

‘Mr Parish shot the gun straight through Paddy Cow’s head,’ I said.

‘I know,’ said Papa. ‘He told me. He said you were very brave about the whole thing.’

‘I wasn’t,’ I said. ‘I just didn’t show him, that’s all.’

‘Well, that’s brave. That’s courage, not to show it.’

‘We buried her in the garden. We had a sort of funeral. Mrs Parish was there, she’s come home.’

‘I know. Mr Parish said.’

‘But she’s going again …’

‘Is she?’ Papa’s eyes flitted back to me.

‘Didn’t Mr Parish tell you?’

‘No, O-yo. He didn’t mention that. That’s very hard on Mr Parish. Are you sure?’

I nodded. ‘She’s just come to sort her things out.’

Papa nodded. ‘Well, that’s sad for Mr Parish, Owen. But that’s what happens sometimes with married people. They stop getting along well together.’ He looked at me properly for the first time in the conversation. ‘Does it make you sad?’

I picked at the bally fabric of the tablecloth. It’d been washed too many times. Papa needed new ones. ‘Nup,’ I said. ‘She said I could come with her to Japan if I wanted.’

‘She did not!’

‘She did! She said I could go to Japanese school and live with her in an apartment where you can see a snow-covered mountain right outside the window.’

‘But you know you can’t go, don’t you, Owen?’

‘Why can’t I?’ I didn’t want to go, not really—but I wanted him to suspect I might, that it wouldn’t really matter to me, going away from him and Mother, that I wouldn’t really care.

‘O-yo …’ he said.

‘The Japanese,’ I continued with great restraint as I made my way towards my point, ‘are commercial whalers, Papa. They use harpoons just like in Moby Dick. They do so much whale-hunting that whales could become extinct.’ I squinted my eyes at him, checking if I still had his full attention. ‘Japanese people eat whale because it is in their tradition. They eat it in their soups. In Moby Dick, Stubb—he’s the first mate—he eats whale steak under the light of the ship lamps. Just cuts them off the side of the whale. The ship lamps are lit with whale oil, Papa. The oil comes from its head. If you shot a sperm-whale in its head, Papa, it wouldn’t spurt blood like Paddy Cow’s did, it would spurt oil.’