As we approach the seasonal massacre of which these magnificent birds have become perversely and paradoxically symbolic, the momentary burst of happiness granted by their calls is interrupted by the painful reminder of who these individuals are considered to be by others of my kind: bodies without souls entitled to not even the most basic of birthrights — life itself.
While we were trying our best to ease his discomfort, we were reminded over and over that our special little man, the Magic Rabbit himself, would be seen by many as nothing more than a luxury meal or the makings of a high-end sweater; a bundle of meat covered in the softest fur.
I couldn’t help but wonder if it was blind passion that caused this particular mother to defy the boundary that threatened to constrain her frenzied search, or whether there was an element of calculation in this act of defiance against the barbs designed to keep her confined.
During my time working around chickens, there were a number of experiences that changed my perspective on eggs and opened my heart to the hens that laid them. The first started with making a homemade “farm fresh” omelet out of eggs a friend had collected.
Dogs have not only been some of my best friends, but some of my greatest teachers. There is no doubt in my mind that my feeling for dogs was a significant factor in my vegan epiphany, since it was not a far leap from the eyes of my best friends to the eyes of the first cow I ever saw crying tears of sorrow.