Cute Sophie has put me off eating lamb

We adopted a lamb. It wears a little hoodie and sleeps on our bed. Where does this leave a protein-hungry food critic?

it's no to pork, rarely to chicken, and i'm wondering what's next ...

The GP took a look at my fingernails and declared the need for more protein. How could she know that my protein options were slipping away like cattle with the gate left open?

Pork, as some readers will recall, has more or less disappeared from the domestic diet chez moi other than in cured form for solo snacking while pretending to be Italian or Spanish. My wife had a traumatic experience at an abattoir as a child and, well, I'm more or less out in sympathy. She hasn't done pig since childhood and while she gets my indulgence for things like prosciutto and salty, cured sausage, we don't cook the stuff. Ever.

Then came chicken. The vast majority of Australia's favourite meat comes from birds bred specifically to build tissue abnormally fast and eat only the grains they have access to in their overcrowded sheds. Sure, there are "free range" birds out there, but most are still bred for crazy growth rates and incapable of free-ranging on grasses and bugs in paddocks they may or may not have access to.

So we are only allowed to buy and cook chicken from a certain local supplier whose animals are of a unique, heritage-based breed, grow far slower than commercial poultry and spend their days foraging in an orchard. Unsurprisingly, these birds are in short supply, and whilst good value are not cheap. Owning chickens for eggs and a small degree of recreational indulgence has certainly contributed to this shared domestic mindset.

So it's a "no" to pork, a "rarely" to chicken, and I'm wondering what comes next. That bleat you hear in the background? Yes, that's the resident lamb, demanding food.

If you've been for a drive in the country lately, you may have noticed lots of lambs are at foot, stumbling around with their gangly, stilt-like legs supporting their fluffy torsos in pursuit of tired ewes.

What you don't see are the lambs sitting on $5000 sofas, wrapped in electric blankets, wearing nice little hoodies, disposable nappies and watching 7.30. Sophie is a triplet whose mother died at birth. She was one day old when I got a text message with a picture and a message that said, "Can we?" Or words to that effect.

I've had dogs, terrapins, mice and sea monkeys. My son had a snake. But, having grown up in the country where sheep were considered stupid animals to be farmed, chased by kelpies, shorn, eaten or both, I've never thought of them as domestic indoor pets.

She's kind of sweet, our Sophie.

She sleeps on our bed. We take her for walks. She gets bathed every time her nappy is changed and smells like gel douche from an expensive hotel. Giving her back to the farmer, eventually, will be hard, and not just for us. Sophie clearly loves a gambol down the hallway, a jump onto the bed, a snuffle in the pillows and the ensuing chase.

She's in for a wake-up call.

But to more important matters:

where will it leave me and lamb as a protein? Will abbacchio alla Romana ever again taste of anything other than contrition? Will I ever gnaw a salty anchovy-rubbed rib again without seeing her pretty little face and those big, horizontal ears? I'll let you know.

But for now, it's back to that hoary question posed by a million function centre waiters: the beef or the fish? Or perhaps sir would enjoy some tofu?