By Leigh Farrell
Why would anyone want to be a vegetarian? Why would such profound insanity come over someone in this manner? And how could someone possibly make this decision and live with it? I know the answers to these questions and more, for I, myself, am a vegetarian. Some people would class me as a lacto-vegetarian, meaning I ingest dairy products and eggs, while others would say I am an ichthyophagist, or someone that consumes fish. A carnivore I ain’t. I haven’t eaten beef, or pork, poultry or lamb for over a year, not to mention abstaining from rattlesnake, frog legs, or woodchuck.
To me it’s a way of life, to others, it’s sheer insanity. But everyone expected it from me. I’ve always loved animals, whether they fly or walk, jump or trot. However, fish do not appeal to me. Ever since Jaws, I can honestly look a dead sole in the eye and cackle insanely, delighted to know he’s a cousin of that great and glorious monster, the shark.
Many vegetarians abstain from wearing leather, fur and suede, but necessity calls, and I admit, I wrap animal skin around my ten toes. To me, Thanksgiving is a steamy tuna casserole. I don’t need to eat symbols. I never liked turkey anyway.
Try not eating meat. You’ll live. And so will a few more of your mammalian relatives. Can you imagine no horses, no cows? Will you have to explain to your grandchildren what a chicken looked like, while they laugh in your face? Maybe you will, but let’s hope we never have to. Let’s live and let live.