Having just turned 36, I've identified two serious differences between me and David Berkowitz, the infamous Son of Sam. One big difference is that I'm not a serial killer (of humans), and the second is that while I routinely have long, meaningful conversations with my dog (among others), she doesn't talk back. This arrangement suits me fine. The Gender-Neutral Transcendence of the Universe Which Binds All Living Things in Its All-Encompassing If Somewhat Impersonal Oneness [that would be "God" for you rubes]--er, God knows what kinds of shenanigans these mischievous critters might force me into if I gave them audience. Besides, I'd rather give orders than take them. Better to think for yourself.

When my vegetarian co-workers get on me for killing animals (fish, deer, turkey, the odd squirrel, rabbit, or duck over many years) and eating them, I usually issue my standard reminder that as I have too much respect for plant life to harm it in any way, much less consume it, my ethics and principles demand I avoid the consumption of helpless plant life. Who made a spine, movement, and vocal cords the line of demarcation, anyway?

I simply cannot stomach the veritable pogrom of a Tossed Garden Salad. Don't get me started on casseroles. My wife's a little miffed at the state of our lawn (I'm no mass murderer), and I refuse to allow a garden on my property. I will not allow the vivisection of rosebushes on my land. MOST people might think of gardens as petting zoos. All I see is a concentration camp surrounded by concertina wire. Okay, chicken wire; same thing. I routinely wear my Save the Celery t-shirt to church. I am a charter member of the Friends of Radicchio. The only bumper sticker on my car reads SALSA IS MURDER.

So I've given up vegetables for good. I've been Veggie Free for several years now, and it's changed my life, not to mention my digestion. It happened suddenly, unexpectedly, just after my wife and I returned from our honeymoon. She cooked me a baked potato to go with a big slab of rare roast beef, and I simply could not look that tater in the eyes (all 47 of them) and cut into it with my knife. To do so would have, by then, felt like cutting myself open and slathering my innards with stick butter, hard and cold from the fridge. So I ate an extra helping of the sizzling meat that was still practically mooing, and went to sleep that night with a clear conscience.

I don't mean to imply it's been easy. I've had to give up my beloved beer (all that grain! The horror!) and am now forced to choke down lots of chocolate milk with every meal, but principles are meaningless without personal sacrifice. It's simply the life I've chosen.

Not eating meat would be like having a purely platonic relationship with my wife. Of course I love her, hold her in high esteem, respect her as a fellow sentient being. We have long conversations deep into the night about very, very meaningful things, and we fish, camp, hike, play cards, and do chores together. We play ball with our children and take turns bathing the dog. We go on long walks at dusk and marvel at our blessings. Sometimes I cook, sometimes she does. I have been known to fold socks, and she works (a little). She is truly my life partner and best friend. She's smarter than me. But if she's not really, really amorous on a regular basis, there's going to be trouble.

I once read an article where a bowhunter at a cocktail party was discussing his activites in the field with some guests. One woman recoiled in horror hearing him talk of his fellow bowhunters. "You hunt animals with sharpened sticks from trees?" she asked, mildly outraged. "What are you, killer monkeys?" The author says he considered this for a moment and finally agreed. "An apt description of homo sapiens," he decides, too late to say so, however. At least animals have a chance to evade or bite you. Plants can't even run (tumbleweeds don't count, smartass).

So when you're eating that spinach salad this evening at that trendy little bistro you flock to every payday, maybe you should think twice before drowning it in caustic VINEGAR and oil (what kind of monster ARE you, anyway?)...think before scooping guacamole with your dried, pounded, suffocated wheat corpses (go ahead, call em tortilla chips, we all know what they really are...aborted wheat germ suffocating in sealed plastic bags), chewing it all like the guiltless predator you are and washing it down with muy cervezas, remember that all those vegetables were once free, blowing in the wind, stretching toward the sun with vigor, trying to evolve into the first head of iceberg lettuce that could move about on its own, the first artichoke to compose a line of iambic pentamenter, the first tomato to transcend its crucifixion on those garden stakes and ask forgiveness for its tormentors. And ask yourself...what have I become?

We live in a fallen yet mysteriously beautiful world. Life is short. Eat more meat.

Posted by Bob Benz at April 11, 2003 11:38 AM

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