‘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.’

‘Like a geyser,’ said Papa.

‘Yep,’ I said, though I didn’t know what a geyser was.

‘We hunt whale in Australia too,’ said Papa. ‘But I don’t cook it in my restaurant.’

‘The Aborigines never hunted whales,’ I said. ‘It was not part of their diet.’

‘It’s not in the Aborigines’ tradition, or not that I know,’ said Papa. ‘Though I bet they would’ve made good harpooners.’

‘Why is it in our tradition to eat pigs and sheep and cows, Papa?’

‘I guess it’s just because we’re used to it. I’ve eaten other animals than those, though.’ He was distracted by the kitchen again: an imaginary pot boiling on the stove. He barked something at the kitchenhand.

‘Well,’ I said. I felt suddenly bigger and more knowledgeable than Papa, with his apron round his waist and his stupid soft drinks that no kid would ever like. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘It’s not ethical to eat cows and sheep. Or chickens and pigs. It’s sort of like eating whales in the light of their own oil from their own heads, Papa.’

Papa looked mystified.

‘The animals we eat only eat grass and hay. And vegetables.’

‘Not pigs,’ said Papa. ‘Pigs’ll eat whatever you throw them. Pigs’ll eat a dead man, Owen, if you chuck one in their feeding trough.’

‘Pigs eat acorns, Papa.’ I was stubborn. ‘Does it seem fair, Papa, to eat animals that are vegetarians? I am a vegetarian. Would you eat me?’

My thinking was not yet refined but righteousness was on fire within me.

Papa looked tired. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Owen,’ he said.

‘And you know something else, Papa?’

Papa shook his head wearily.

‘Cows are smart, Papa. And pigs are like dogs, in their intelligence. And lambs are so cute. How could you want to eat one?’

He threw his hands up in the air.

‘So,’ I said. I felt a strange rush at what I was about to say. ‘So, Papa. For Mother’s launch, we should have a vegetarian banquet. In honour of Paddy Cow and Moby Dick.’