It's all about the meat, baby

Since a certain reader seems to have a thing for cute cat pictures I thought I would offer up one of my own. I mean come on, what's cuter than a bunny AND a kitty. Ok, so this kitty is perhaps showing a somewhat aggressive stance and doesn't exactly appear to be the bunnies closest chum but hey, that shouldn't matter... should it? Marlin Perkins would be proud.

The image made me think of my own relation to food and in particular my little hopping bags of protein and how much different my approach is to that of the cat's. This weekend I dressed two of the males out. Nothing different than I had done before, but as much as I like to play the hard ass I don't ever look forward to the process, and this one went horribly wrong.

Greek and Roman were on the proverbial chopping block this time. I tend to name my rabbits as it assists in talking about them. It's hard to discuss a single rabbit's behavior without having a name for it. Roman got his name first as he had a rather large nose with a prominent bulge to it.... hence 'Roman'. Greek naturally followed as he looked similar to Roman but was less powerful (lower ranking in the social structure of the colony). Hell, I thought it was witty as far as barnyard naming conventions go. Anyway, I'm clearing out the mix breeds in favor of more productive Californian and New Zealand breeders and as mixed breed males, Greek and Roman's empire was crumbling.

So Greek and Roman were caught and set in cages to wait their day of reckoning. It's said that animals can sense what is going on and while never one to take that idea to extremes, on this day it certainly seemed to be true. As I took Roman from the cage and carried him to "the tree" he began to squirm... and then, squeal, loudly. I don't like to see animals suffer even when ultimately they are to be my dinner, probably more so then. So, I hurriedly llifted him up to do the deed. Grasping his head and pulling down sharply I heard the tale-tell pops and the woods feel silent. Relieved that that ordeal was over, the relatively easy job of dressing awaited.

I hung him in the tree from the two leg straps and readied my equipment. Then I noticed, he was stiff. He shouldn't be stiff. He's supposed to be dead goddammit. Then I saw faint chest falls as he hung upside down. Fuck. So, I grabbed the knife and decided to bleed him out as I apparently only stunned him and broke his back. So, in the knife went to slice the arteries and windpipe as deep as I could manage with him hanging as he was, hoping that the job was done for good this time. Apparently this was just enough stimulation to fire up the rabbits nervous system again and away he went... dancing on the end of those ropes like a marionette on crack flinging blood and gurgling as sat watching, feeling all the world like a backyard Himmler. A hollow feeling came over me as I watched the unpleasantness play out in front of me. Intent to do something to stop the rabbit's suffering I picked up my wood mallet, moved behind it and landed it squarely on the back of the dancing rabbits skull. He fell still.. and limp.

Fuck, fuck, fuck .... fuck. I remember muttering it over and over. Feeling guilty, not for what I'd done, but for how poorly it had been attempted. I completed the job after that without much drama, skinning it, dressing it and bagging it up for the freezer. The second went as expected. Greek was no surprise, no guilt or gore involved at all, but still it wasn't a pleasant thing, simply something that must be done.

This is what got me thinking. What made me stop and pause on the picture of the cat. The fact that killing even to support my family is done begrudgingly, without enjoyment. While the cat is almost entirely defined by it's predatory nature. It can no more look at a toad without stalking it as Josie O'Donald can look at a doughnut and not eat it. It enjoys the hunt and the kill, reveling in the torture of weaker things. Yet we as humans, at least the healthy ones. get no thrill from this activity. The hunt may be enjoyable but from afar not up close with something so much weaker than ourselves, and by our own hand.

I suppose in the end I'm lucky. While distasteful I got something out of this experience. I learned that there isn't anything too broken inside me, that I do still feel for other things. I don't want them to suffer. I learned that ultimately there are core differences between us and the animals. Finally, I learned even cat's aren't always slaves to their nature.