Haggis

by Hilary Jocelyn

Don’t you believe for a moment in the stories you hear about Haggis. I mean, they try to tell you that Haggis is the guts and gore of a sheep, served in its revoltingly slimy stomach lining. But this, my friends, is pure conspiracy theory. A juicy and fabricated lie.

I mean, anyone with a brain inside their heid, and certainly any guid Scot, knows that Haggis are actually wee groundhog sized creatures that live in a Happy Haggis Colony, high up on the Scottish hillsides. And that their two left sided legs are several inches longer than their two right sided ones, so they can run round and round the mountain in a clockwise direction, chasing their prey, and shaking off anything that might want them for dinner.

I’m not sure if you have had the pleasure of tasting Haggis, but their supreme downfall is that they are a highly sought after, tastebud melting, delicacy. Sadly, this makes them a prime target for callous hunters and greedy poachers, who lie in wait among the dreich, damp heather, using fierce dogs to chase them from their burrows. Then, noisy gunfire errupts, echoing over the windswept landscape.

Haggis meat is crucial to Scotland’s blossoming economy, but tragically, they are becoming so scarce, that we can probably add them to the endangered species list, along with Tigers, and Blue Whales. To make matters worse, the Haggis death rate triples around January 25^th when people worldwide, gather to celebrate Robbie Burns Day by eating this divine, traditional Scottish fayre.

I met a couple of Haggis a week or two ago. Here in the Canadian woods. The puir wee things were terrified. With watering eyes and panic chattering teeth. Or was it because it was so darn cold? One of them told me in quaking Haggis Speak, about how his kith and kin were facing extinction in the quiet Scottish countryside

In a desperate attempt to escape the inevitable, these two intrepid beasties had made the heart wrenching decision to leave their loved ones, their cherished home, and their close-knit Haggis family. They had fled from the peaty hills, and ingeniously managed to smuggle themselves onto a boat that was heading from a nearby Scottish port, across the stormy grey seas, to Canada. They had hidden among boxes of tartan kilts, barrels of porridge, huge tins of Scottish shortbread, and numerous crates of fine whiskey and beer. When they arrived, they planned to have few dozen bairns, (because Haggis procreate as quickly as rabbits do), and to establish another Happy Haggis Colony, here in the Hills.

As most self-respecting Canadians prefer eating stomach twirling hotdogs, to chomping down Haggis, these Scottish survivors will be safer here. If they adapt to the harsh Canadian climate.