Have you ever twisted off the head of a chicken, or chopped
its head off with an axe, and watched the blood spray out? What does that have
to do with the Grilled Chicken Sandwich you just had for lunch? Is the death of
bird and the meat in your pasta even associated in your mind, or do you even
give it a thought?
I grew up in a farming area in central California, near
Modesto. My uncle had a large farm near us with cows, chickens, ducks, sheep, a
horse or two, pigs and lots of pets. I learned to milk cows when I was 10 or
so, and helped my cousins feed the chickens and ducks. I would go into the hen
house and get the eggs, and there would always be baby chicks to play with. I
loved baby chicks, so fluffy and yellow, so soft to put up next to my face. I
would name them silly things like Earl or Fluffy Buffy, and they would follow
me around the barnyard begging for food and referring to my clothing choices as
“cheap, cheap, cheap!”
The first time my cousin killed one of my baby chick's parents,
I was perhaps 9. My sister and I were asked to help chase down one of the hens
and help him catch it, and then help him hold it by the legs while he chopped
the head off with an axe. That chicken struggled and squirmed and pecked, it
did not want to die. He raised the axe, and dropped it on the neck, and blood
sprayed all over me, but the axe had only gone half way through as it was dull.
The chicken’s feet had sharp claws, and it scratched me, with its neck spraying
blood all over me. He chopped again, and the head came off completely. “Let it
go!” he commanded, and I turned it loose. The hen ran around the yard without
her head for what seemed like several minutes, spraying blood as she ran. At
the end, he picked her body up and began plucking the feathers out, asking if I
wanted to help. I could not.
That night, she was served on a beautiful platter with
onions, tomatoes, potatoes and rosemary. All of my cousins enjoyed the meal,
but I could not eat her. Could you? No? Perhaps you just ate her grandson!
About a year later age 10, the ducks we kept in our back
yard hatched out about 7 ducklings. I picked out one with a very orange bill,
green eyes and a very quacky mouth and called him “Yacky Doodle”. Yacky Doodle
followed me everywhere in the house, and would sit on my lap while I watched
TV. I had to clean up a little poop on the floor, but I loved my pet baby duck
more than any pet I have had since. I put him on the chair next to me when I
ate, and gave him food off my plate. I slept with Yacky Doodle, and hugged him
close to my face and kissed him each night.
One night I kiss Yacky goodnight, and forgot to put him in
his box on the floor. Yacky went to sleep next to me, and I rolled over in my
sleep and squashed him flat. I never felt anything, but the next morning I was
crying to “make Yacky Doodle wake up, momma, please!” Is that why when I go to
my favorite Thai restaurant and order spicy stir-fried cashew nut vegetables, I
order the vegan “Mock Duck” on the menu instead of fried “Yacky Doodle” real
duck right next to it? I think it does, although my vegan lifestyle started
this time as a desire to lose weight and become healthier, I think my love for
animals makes it very difficult for me to eat them.
I am too kind, tender-hearted and gentle to eat anything
with a face, and yes, I am gay. Many football watching, beer drinking, deer
hunting, gun toting “macho men” would call me a “sissy,” and tell me I could
never survive in the dog-eat-dog, kill or get killed real world. “If I was
stranded in the forest with nothing to eat, I would eat my own child if that’s
what it took to survive” one carnivorous friend told me after watching a movie
about airplane crash survivors eating each other.
I on the other hand, do not eat my pets, friends, family or
business clients. I choose all animals as my friends. Some animals may choose
to eat me, but I choose not to eat them.
My youth on a California farm also taught me to recognize the
difference between “organic” farming practices and “factory farms”. Cows raised
on “organic” farms get to eat real grass. Chickens get to scratch in the dirt
outside instead of being confined to a cage. In contrast, a factory farm animal
lives in its own waste; it walks in feces, licks it off of its legs and feet,
and stands and sleeps in poop. They are confined to cages or stalls, and fed
hormones and antibiotics to keep them fat and producing eggs, milk and meat.
We have many diseases in common with chickens and cows, such
as flu, cancer, or even mad cow disease. When antibiotics are put into the
animal’s food, any virus or bacteria they have become resistant to those antibiotics
over time. When you eat the meat, eggs or milk, those antibiotic – resistant virus
and bacteria are introduced into your body. When you get sick and go to the
doctor, she gives you the same antibiotic that was in the animal’s feed. You
take the medicine, but you don’t get well. You could die from the disease
before the doctor discovers why you are not responding to the antibiotics you
were given.
In the documentary movie “
Forks over Knives”, see
http://www.forksoverknives.com/
there is a lot more information about factory farms and the reasons for
becoming a vegan.
People assume that the animals they eat did not suffer, and
died a humane death. Watch the movie, I dare you!
Here is my challenge to every carnivore: Before you eat
another grilled chicken sandwich or big Mac, go to a slaughterhouse and watch
them kill a cow or chicken. Better yet, kill the animal with your own hands.
Watch it die, then see if you can buy that very animal and eat it. I can’t eat
anything with a face. Can you?
Keywords: vegan, vegetarian, healthy, weight loss, forks over
knives, plant based diet, animal rights
