Squeamishness

I have been thinking about my squeamishness when it comes to killing animals. I grew up on a farm and killed many a chicken, although even then I hated doing it. Somehow, however, in the process of getting educated, I was given an extra dose of civilizing. I no longer shared my people’s interest in raising livestock, killing it and eating it. I did not care to hunt, and blood sports began to disgust me. I found the idea of fighting ridiculous. I had become thoroughly domesticated and feminized to a much greater degree than even some of my closest kin.

In fact, I am actually troubled about eating meat, and I have endeavored to avoid factory farmed products and to pay extra for cruelty free meat and eggs and dairy and such. These products taste better, for one thing, and I can assuage my guilt by telling myself that the critter had a good life right up until the moment it was slaughtered. Maybe they make the animal think that it is going to the movies or something and kill it before it knows that it has actually entered an abattoir. That would be nice.

On the other hand, I sometimes feel ridiculous about my squeamishness. I like meat a lot. I would like to keep rabbits and eat rabbit meat, one of my favorite foods, but I can’t imagine that I’d be able to kill and dress a helpless bunny. I’d like to eat some of the deer and turkeys that pass by the house, but I can’t see myself shooting and butchering them. I can’t even clean a fish, for crying out loud! In the post-apocalyptic dystopia to come, I am going to have to get over this. I am an Eloi.