When I was a kid, we had a dog named Chubby. Yes, he was fat. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe it was just his thick fluffy white fur that made him look fat.

As you can probably guess by now, my family is amazingly creative when it comes to naming pets. They named a black dog Puppy because she was small... like a puppy. See? So creative. Puppy ironically lived to the ripe old age of 20, which is like 140 in dog years. Chubby, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky.

One morning, someone forgot to close the front gate, and Chubby, who had been playing with us in the yard, ran outside before anyone could stop him. Chubby may be chubby, but he sure could run. He quickly disappeared around the corner. After about 20 minutes of futile search, everyone gave up. Maybe we could have kept searching, but it was breakfast time. Hey, breakfast was and still is the most important meal of the day. And my family was and still is good at eating.

You know what else my family is good at? Being sensitive. I was nonchalantly told that the runaway dog had probably been caught by jobless bums down the street and would be turned into an appetizer soon. Being not particularly fond of that dog, I didn't feel much sadness. What I did feel, however, was an intense curiosity.

Yes, curiosity. Up until that point in my life, I had never imagined dogs as food. Dogs were just noisy little creatures running around the house. Cows and chickens were the chunks of tasty meat served on dinner plates. But that day, my young innocent mind connected the dots, and I couldn't help but ask the obvious question.

What do dogs taste like? It's a question that I still ask myself from time to time.

Chubby, your life may have been short and tragic, but on that rainy night, you brought fleeting happiness to a bunch of hungry drunken bums. I hope I'll experience the same kind of happiness someday.