My family’s Ruby is a monster bitch. And I don’t mean this is some cutesy, “I secretly love her,” kind of way. I actually really don’t like her. I know this sounds crazy, how could someone not like their cute dog. It’s simple. Ruby’s not cute. She’s not fluffy or cuddly. She has nearly no redeeming qualities beyond being a biological vacuum cleaner for food scraps. So harsh, I know. Let me explain where this blunt frustration stems from. She stares at me while I am eating or watching a movie or hanging out with friends or family and if I don’t tend to her within her designated time frame, she moves closer, proceeding closer and closer until eventually her nose is inches from my face. If at that moment I still do not give her the attention she demands, she lets loose a roaring, deep, menacing rottweiler-mutt bark, threatening to pierce right through my ear drum with her blaring decibels. If then I continue to hold my increasingly forlorn ground, she will not resign and admit defeat. Instead she whips out her third line of attack: untrimmed claws that Lucifer himself would fear.
I stopped eating flesh when I was fourteen. I had seen a chicken truck driving on I-95 with feathers flying everywhere and the birds suffocating, jammed into the mass. I wanted to have nothing to do with that. The question of purpose is one that damn near plagues vegetarians and ends up being a reason some of us hide the choice. Is it because of health reasons? Or moral reasons? Taste or cost? Environmental reasons? For the most part, the answer is yes to all of those.