Spring Lamb

I’ve been called many things in my life: communist, jerk, feminist, human, carnivore—and I’m comfortable with most of these titles (I don’t necessarily identify as “human”).  However, I have been called “monster” relatively frequently of late, and I feel the label doesn’t quite fit.

Two weeks ago, the first of my family’s spring lambs was born and christened “Tattoo” (or maybe T.A.T.u.—it’s quite possible that my sister harbors a secret love for Russian Lesbian post-pop electronica).  She was followed soon after by twins, Paco and Taco. 

I am not blind to their cuteness.  I, too, feel the tugs on my heartstrings when I watch them climbing, jumping, playing, nursing…but I cannot ignore the darker purpose I serve in raising them.  These lambs were bred for a very specific purpose: meat.  When I pick Paco up, while others might notice his wool, his markings, his eyes, I focus on his weight, his developing muscles, and his strength.  By looking at him this way from the very beginning, I am doing my best to develop a very specific type of relationship between us.  I will do everything that I can to ensure that his time on the farm is as pleasant as possible—for him, myself, and the rest of his family—but when the time comes, I understand that it will be up to me to prepare him for the roast, and that everything I have done will have been in the interest of that roast.  Does this make me a monster?

Perhaps.  Perhaps it is somewhat sadistic to raise an animal with meat in mind from the very beginning.  Perhaps it is monstrous to end the life of something you’ve raised.  Perhaps.

 But is it monstrous to be this close to food?  To have been involved at the major stages of an animal’s life before it hits your plate?  To see the moving thing that shank, tongue, or chop came from?  To see what it was like before it was “just food”—to know, firsthand, that it deserves care?  Attention?  Respect?  I think not.

So call me what you will.  I’m going to love that lamb, and I’m going to eat that lamb.