Meat Eater Guilt Trip

My girlfriend and I were driving down the freeway the other day when we passed a pickup truck hauling three huge, white cows that were lying down and eating hay.

“Awe, how cute!” she said as we passed them.

“You do realize where these cows are going, don’t you?” I asked.  I wasn’t sure, but something told me they were on their way to the slaughterhouse.

“Oh, don’t say it. I don’t want to hear it. I’ll never be able to eat a hamburger again!”

This from the woman who adamantly refused to become a vegetarian? Oh, we’d talked about it often enough.  I wanted to make the change. And though I’m the one who does most of the cooking, she wouldn’t budge. I’d finally given up. Our relationship didn’t need the strain. But I’m not a man who misses opportunities. I seized the moment.

We’d passed the cows by this point, so I slowed down.

“Stop it! I don’t want to see them again!” she said.

I insisted I was just driving the speed limit, which was true, but I never drive the speed limit.

“Speed up!” she said.

I did as she asked. I sped up, just enough to stay right beside them.

“Wanna go get a steak?” I asked. “Wanna go get a big juicy burger?”

“No, I think I want to be a vegetarian,” she said, whining like a small child as she looked out the window at her three new friends. She sighed. I knew she was thinking about her karma and all the cows she had consumed in her life.

This was it—my moment of victory, her moment of change. I let it sink in for a few minutes, and then I sped up.

A half an hour later she said, “I’m hungry, but I can’t eat beef… I want chicken.”

Next week I’ll take her to a chicken farm. Then she’ll only eat pork. Oh well, one step at a time.