On again, off again
I didn’t know. But the idea bothered me enough to launch myself back into vegetarianism, at least sporadically. One week, I shunned meat; the next week, I’d salivate nonstop over the idea of pepperoni until I broke down and bought a stick, devouring it in one sitting. Or I’d sit across from someone who’d ordered a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, and my childhood memories — and taste buds — would overtake all reason. The next month, I’d be on the veggie wagon again, only to cave to pressure at a family dinner and eat my mother’s Easter rib roast. Part of it was, again, not wanting to be the squeaky wheel. (My mother is a big eye roller.) But there was a larger issue, one that was even tougher to resist: I craved the taste and couldn’t imagine never eating these things again.

Meanwhile, in the science journals I read as part of my work as a health journalist, I noticed a small but burgeoning trend in research on the sentience of animals. Fish may feel pain. Sheep could distinguish the faces of their peers — and even human caretakers — from strangers. Cows suffered anxiety. Chickens were able to utter different calls to communicate the ups and downs of life.

I also read about Temple Grandin, Ph.D., a high-functioning autistic woman and leading expert in animal science at Colorado State University at Fort Collins. Grandin creates techniques that make the slaughtering process less stressful for the animals. In addition to being less disturbing for the cattle, these procedures also improve the market quality of the meat, which can be affected by increased stress before slaughtering.

Grandin’s methods have been lauded for making the process of slaughtering cattle more humane. And I’m sure they have. But the need for them made me feel even worse. Clearly these are not dumb, insensible creatures who are oblivious to whether they live or die. Quite the reverse. Does it matter that they can’t think their way through a tricky calculus problem or write a symphony? I couldn’t help but empathize with them. Because wouldn’t I, too, feel hysteria if I knew my seconds were numbered? What made me so different from these animals? I wondered.

The moral argument
We relegate thoughts about the creatures we eat to about the same space we give to any crisis halfway around the world that we feel we can’t understand or have a direct impact on. We don’t like to think about it because there’s so little we feel we can do about it. We make assumptions that negate the pain and suffering (at least in the case of the animals) and absolve ourselves of responsibility in preventing or relieving it. Just because we turn our back on the situation doesn’t mean it isn’t there anymore. But what is our responsibility? Or, at the very least, what is mine? Much as I try to ignore the question and dig in, it haunts me whenever I eat meat. Worse, it has left me with the somewhat horrifying conclusion that I am a vegetarian morally but not in practice, the exact reverse of where I started.

It would be nice if I could find a way to let myself off the hook, to say that I’m not cut out for vegetarianism, that maybe my body requires meat. But I don’t believe that’s true. That would presume real vegetarians, by some fluke of biology, have an easier time of it. But I have sat across from too many vegetarians tucking resignedly into a plate of steamed vegetables in lieu of the evening’s meaty main course to believe that commitment comes without a price. Instead, I choose guiltily between the filet mignon and the chicken, wishing I possessed a stronger moral character.

Of course, I can continue to live a conflicted life, and no one will judge me but me. But though I crave resolution, so far, I am unable (or unwilling) to make the sacrifice. What does this say about me? Am I incapable of exercising empathy when it’s inconvenient? Which leaves me to contemplate a particular irony: It is not other people but animals who are forcing me to consider the depth and breadth of my humanity. Every time I pick up a menu.

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