Heather bought the claw more than a year ago from a vendor at the Vashon Island Farmers Market. The vendor was of ambiguous sexuality. The claw, while certified (by someone) organic, was also of ambiguous heritage. Mike thought it was the foot of a chicken. Heather and I were not so sure.
Regardless of what kind of creature the claw came from, there was no doubt in my mind that the claw was something I wanted. I had already eaten all of the dried up skin and innards that came in the same bag as the claw, and the claw was the biggest thing in the bag. Plus, I had smelled the claw. I WANTED the claw.
Finally, Mike and Heather brought forth the claw. It was my prize for letting them squeeze drops into my eyes twice a day to ward off some mild conjunctivitis. Since they were also going away soon, they didn’t want to risk me regurgitating the claw on Lynn’s watch. They were giving me plenty of time to pass any remnants of the claw out of my system before Lynn arrived to take care of me.
They put it outside while they were gardening without telling me it was there, but it didn’t take long for me to pick up the scent and locate it with my eyes. It looked unguarded, but I was wary. I looked at Mike expectantly, and he had barely said, “OK” before I pounced, snared it and returned to my bed. No, I didn’t pause to say grace before gnawing in.
The claw was good. And then the claw was history.