Meat

By Theresa

When I was 7 I decided to become a vegetarian. When people ask me why I decided to become a vegetarian at such a young age, images of raw meat carcasses, random animal parts, and animals rolling around in feces are conjured in my mind, and I wonder why they haven't become one. There were many factors that added up to ensure my vegetarianism. The first one I can remember were the days of chicken butchering. I will admit that in the beginning I enthusiastically participated in the affair-I mean how could I miss out, I was the gizzard cleaner. It was exciting because it was a chore that we were all together for since there was a job for each of us. But after slicing open so many brown slimy gizzards and scraping the rocks off the tough inner skin, and watching mom pull out foot after foot of brown intestines, and smelling the strong sickening odor of the innards of the chickens, the hunger in me began to die. It also didn't help that all the feathers were not always plucked fully off and when I thought of this as mom plopped a freshly thawed out chicken in to a pot to begin soup, I felt a knot grow in my stomach.

Watching them butcher a cow was equally as bad but in its own rite. The smells and sounds were only amplified with the larger beast. Cows were not something I could help butcher, but I do remember watching the process, somewhat in horror. I couldn't watch the process too long as the smell was too overwhelming and the sound of the knife cutting through the flesh of the cow sent shivers through my body. Once when I was older my mom had some Native American friends butcher a bull in our backyard. Before the bull was even finished being butchered they had lit the grill and started barbecuing the meat. I was so glad I was a vegetarian as they offered me a hot piece of testicle. It was beyond me how anyone could have an appetite for meat after witnessing that.

But the worst was the day I came home from school on a cold, rainy day. It was sometime in the late fall and Danny had been deer hunting that season. By this time I was well into my days as a vegetarian and absolutely loathed deer hunting season, so much so that I would make signs and write stories condemning the recreation. I hated being outside on those fall days listening to the piercing sound of a shot gun in the distance. And whenever I saw deer I would wish them safety through that dark season. I hated when Danny was successful in his hunt and I was shamed by the bounty he would proudly hang from a tree in our front yard. I looked at the dead deer with scorn and pity, I was angry that it hadn't out smarted my brother. This particular year was especially depressing as I believe we had 2 dead deer on our hands. I can't remember the details, but for some reason my parents had one of the deer butchered at home, instead of having a professional do it. It would have been tolerable if this butchering was that simple, but by some bad decision (due to the cold, wet weather) my parents and my uncle and his wife decided to do the butchering on our kitchen table. When I walked into the house that afternoon I stared in shock at the overwhelming scene. It is one thing to see a beautiful deer struck down and hung in your tree, it is another thing entirely to see that wild animal flung across the entire length of your kitchen table. It was too much for me to handle, I couldn't stick around and watch how it turned out. It looked like a horrible mess to me and I needed to escape it. I quickly got the low-down and bolted to my room shutting the door behind me. Luckily Molly was right there with me so I could find some solace in knowing that she too found the whole scene disgusting and frightening. We hid upstairs the entire night, trying to block out what was happening down in the kitchen. This became difficult once they began cooking the meat for dinner. The smell of the venison was so strong and sickening. The smoke drifted in to our room from the hole in our floor and burnt my eyes. We grabbed towels and clothing to block the hole and prevent the smell from coming up and we opened our windows to bring fresh air in. Timmy, who was still very young, had come upstairs to get away as well, and I remember crying with him. I yelled to my parents that it was so horrible and I couldn't believe what they were doing. I was so happy when it was over, and all the evidence was gone, although it took awhile for me to eat at our kitchen table.

Uncle Steve and Uncle Tim butchering a cow.