Sigyn, being tender-hearted, was more than a bit traumatized yesterday by my decapitation and ingestion of the zoological cookies. I apologized profusely and tried to explain that they are, in fact, baked goods and (probably) not truly living creatures. I have been forgiven, but she remains unconvinced. She could scarcely sleep last night, worrying about the hundreds of other little animals out there, imprisoned in brightly colored bags and boxes and in imminent danger of gastronomical extinction.
So here she and I are at the market today, with the contents of her piggy bank (plus the human female’s household cash stash) to rescue as many animals as possible. We have one cart full and have started on a second.
What?! Sigyn is crying in distress! What is wrong my love? What have you found?
Oh, sweetheart, no. Shhhh! Calm down. Those are not little animals cruelly smothered in polka-dot costumes and made to perform tricks for a jaded public’s amusement. No, I promise, they can breathe. Or rather, they don’t breathe, but only because they’re not alive. Ack! No! I don’t mean they’re dead! I mean they were not/are not/ will never be living creatures. They are cookies. With frosting. And sprinkles.
Great Frigga’s hairpins. Let us go home. Let us just pay for the cookies in the cart and call it a day. Tomorrow I will teach you about cookie cutters and dough molds.