Vegan Page 2

  It’s something I’ve been struggling with for years—well before we gave up meat. I was in taping up Lucy’s leg at the kitchen sink on the very day that it all made sense to me. Rancher still calls this day the apocalypse of life as we knew it. In a way, he’s right. I prefer to think of it as the day of epiphany. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is the result of it.

  That afternoon it was all so simple: Human beings wrote the Bible in the first place. Because of this, our interpretations of God’s word are the codes we live by. But what if God himself, or herself, had spelled the rules out in more simple terms? I wondered. Maybe, I reasoned, the message got distorted in all the mumbo jumbo. Maybe He intended it that way—for flawed human beings with big egos to read into His word in whatever way they wanted. Or maybe not. Maybe God had flaws too.

  Whatever it was, I knew, with Lucy’s leg taped up and her black eyes filled with fear, no longer dull, there was no way this animal didn’t have a soul. I held her there, above my kitchen sink, and wondered if everything I knew of God had been a lie. “Animals don’t have souls. Only human beings are created in God’s image. Animals don’t have souls...”

  That’s what they told me in Catholic school and later CCD—that animals didn’t have souls. They told Rancher the same thing—the year he lost his terrier Suzie Q.

  Bullshit. That part, looking at Lucy, I knew.

  Perhaps, I decided, this theory that animals were nothing more than lesser “things” for our entertainment and consumption was another way to make us feel better about ourselves. We were, after all, the very same idiots that took the bite out of the very same apple we were warned about. Maybe, in putting ourselves as royalty above all other of God’s creatures, it made us feel more important—like a queen on her throne shouting orders of “off with his head” at those who were lesser, or, more likely, a threat. I didn’t know. But I knew, in that moment, Lucy the chicken had a soul. It made me question everything—including something as huge as God himself and as minor as that night’s dinner fixin’s.

  Lucy would be okay. I’d make sure of it. What I also knew, and what was much harder than that, was the honest truth: I also knew I had a pound of half-thawed chicken breast melting away on my stove. I stared at it, then her, and began to bawl... Trust in the lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.

  I sobbed for an hour straight before Rancher finally came in and asked what the fuss was about. I told him I was a killer. I told him that he was too. I told him I was going to hell, and it was exactly where we both belonged. And then, in a feeble voice, I asked him if Lucy could live in the house. He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. I probably had. But he was smart enough not to argue. Desperate to shut off my faucet of tears, he would have done just about anything. Rancher is not a complicated man. If there’s anything he can’t stand, it’s the sight of me crying. We’d had our share of that lately.

  And so, he didn’t argue. Instead, he agreed to bring a crate in “just until her leg heals then right back out to the coop.” He had no idea it would be those few words that changed everything, from the way we lived, to our meals, and how we paid the bills. In all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.

  Vegan

  Chapter Two

  Blessed are ye that hunger now:

  For ye shall be filled.

  In the beginning

  I DIDN’T EAT RIGHT for about six weeks after Lucy broke her leg. If I wasn’t playing with her in the living room and teaching her the types of commands other people might teach a pet dog—sit and stay—I was busy researching things like the history of animal brutality and avoiding websites on human mortality rates of rare late-onset diseases. I took notes frantically, keeping them in a notebook I’d soon present to Rancher who was giving me too many side-eyed looks for my comfort and asking when Lucy would be back in the barn.

  “WE NEED HER LAYING eggs.”

  “No. She’s not ready.”

  “What are we gonna do? Go buy eggs from Ginny? I don’t think so. I ain’t asking for handouts either. Something’s got to change. Daisy isn’t milking right. Running out of hay. I can’t keep cutting back, babe. I just need to push through. Too many appointments is killing us.”

  “I don’t care. We’re going to do what we need to do. The lord will help us. Everything will work out,” I say, lying.

  He laughs. “Yeah. He’s done a heck of a job so far. Maybe he’s a God only for Murray.”

  “Rebecca too.”

  “Yep. Got that straight.”

  “Kids too?”

  “Okay. He’s a God for everyone who isn’t us? Does that make you feel better? Either way, Lucy stays. She’s still walking strange. It’s not like she’s the only hen in the coop. Besides, you love her.”

  His thin lips turn up into a crooked smile. “Yeah. I reckon I do. Fine. Three more days.”

  “A week.”

  He doesn’t answer. Shaking his head, he walks away. I watch him, trying to figure out if there’s anything different about his gait. He seems normal. Too skinny. No different than the freaking cows. Hell, me too.

  WHEN I did eat, only because I had to, I only reached for things like peanuts and green beans. Never did I want to go anywhere near meat. I wasn’t even tempted. It was kind of like learning a filthy secret about a close friend. Once that trust is broken, you just can’t look at them the same again. For me, that was meat. The moment I realized what I was doing by eating it, I couldn’t look at it the same. I didn’t have any desire to partake in what felt, to me, like murder. Instead, I just began to snack on easy things like vegetables from Rancher’s garden. Still, this wasn’t as easy as you might think—being the wife of a Texas rancher. People, even my own husband, began to wonder.

  The first few days were the easiest. I had no appetite at all. I eventually threw the cold, runny half-defrosted chicken from the stove back into the fridge, but later put it into the trash. I didn’t think about what I was doing. What I should have done, since that chicken was already dead, was boil it up and feed it to the dogs. But I couldn’t look at it and wasn’t thinking. I could have even fed it to Rancher. But looking at it just made my stomach churn. So that chicken basically died for no reason at all other than the $2.99 per pound profits that went to all the killers and accomplices involved. It’s something that still haunts me now—something I still pray about.

  By the second week, my stomach grumbling, Rancher was convinced that I was the one without a soul by cooking meals made only of “green things.” Then, with the lab reports, things got a little more difficult. I didn’t have a choice. My husband needed protein. I had no idea how to do that on a diet of only vegetables and starches. He looked dramatically weaker, paler too, and was moving slower. It might not be worth it.

  And so, I cooked up eggs from the chicken coop and put Lucy back outside. I didn’t think she should have to live with a killer. She was innocent and deserved better. Crazy, I know, but it’s where my head was at the time. All I could think about was the fetuses that would never come to be because my stubborn husband wanted something “more than grass” to eat.

  I tried. I really did. I studied alternative ways to get protein. I learned about other cultures and people who used beans as a main source of it in their diets. I even explained to him that elephants are massive, muscular beasts. They are herbivores. They don’t eat meat. “And look at them,” I said. He didn’t bite. In fact, I thought he might bite me. He told me if I didn’t start “acting right” he would take me back to the shrink.

  I’m not crazy. Sure, I have a little anxiety. But it’s nothing I need more than an emergency pack of Xanax for. And who exactly wouldn’t be, with a sick husband and more bills than three working farms could ever handle? The meat thing, which seemed minimal to me compared to the insurance deductibles and lack of answers from specialists, sure didn’t make me mentally insane. He just wouldn’t listen.

  Not when I made him look in Lucy’s eyes
. Not when I forced him to go out to the barn and name every single one of the pigs. Not even when I explained that eggs were technically chicken periods. Instead, he just rolled his eyes and, for the first time in ten years, I thought he might actually leave me. Blessed is he who knows not what he has done.

  It went on and on and on and the feelings only grew stronger, manifesting in a variety of ways.

  One day, when Lucy wouldn’t come to me, I stopped trying to teach her tricks altogether. She’s probably pissed I put her back outside. She may be my favorite, but who says I am hers? Not her. She always liked him better. I have no right to expect her to do as I say. Besides, I reasoned, who was I to give her commands? I was neither her maker nor puppet master. To treat her in those ways just didn’t feel right. When I told Rancher about this, he told me I’d lost it for sure and proceeded to take her to the furthest coop from the house. He told me not to visit her and that it was turning me into a “wack job.” He told me to pick—it was him or her. In that case, I picked him. But it was only a battle. I needed to win the war.

  He called it a phase and told me to get over it quick. He told me my tree hugging was enough. So, to prove him wrong, I went to the freezer for a pound of ground beef straight out of our yard. I figured tacos would shut the guy up. I refused to look out the window. I didn’t want to see Maisy or Jean—my two favorite beef cows. I felt like a traitor—a Judas of sorts. How could I go out to their barn to pet them knowing that they’d one day become a half-assed Mexican dinner on some rancher wife’s table too?

  Forgive others rather than judge others. Besides, he needs the protein. It’s not worth the fight. Just do this. Later, you can find another way to convince him. The cow’s already dead. Not using the meat would be worse. It’d be like he died for nothing. I held my nose and made the meal. I refused to eat it. Before I plated it for Rancher, I said a prayer—out loud—in front of him that the cow might rest in peace. He only stared at me like I had three heads and finally asked if maybe I was the one who needed medical attention instead of him.

  I ignored him. I had to leave the place for three hours, worried the scent of death might still be in the house. I occupied myself at the book store. There, at a Barnes and Noble in Katy, Texas, is where I came across the book that would change our world in ways only our maker could have predicted. The book was about an animal sanctuary in Tennessee—formerly a commercial cattle farm. I threw down my nearly-maxed out Capitol One card and paid the $19.99 with a smile, fully aware that I was about to change my life. As for my marriage? It was do or die. And, for what was right, for a reason I couldn’t quite understand, I was willing to. Hopefully, my tenacious husband would eventually see the light.

  Vegan

  Chapter Three

  Blessed are ye that weep now:

  For ye shall laugh.

  Since Lucy

  I REACH FOR VEGETABLE oil, wondering if Rancher will even know the difference. He’s going to think I’ve lost my mind. He won’t understand why the sudden change of heart. I’ve considered telling him it is vegan meat; something new I found at the health co-op. But staring down at the raw, bloodied chunks of human muscle, I doubt I could pull it off. Besides, the less I lie to him, the better. Someday, we’ll laugh about this over vegan wine, Lord willing and the creeks don’t rise. Just not now. It’s too soon. When and if I do tell him, let’s just say he won’t be shocked that I was looney enough to pull this off. It’s not like I don’t have a history of being, well, extreme.

  I can see it now: At first, he’ll stare at me. And, after he’s asked me a million times whether or not I’m kidding, he’ll finally believe me. Another case of what’s done is done. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I like what I’ve done. But there are codes we all live by—love comes first. Sometimes, you have to sacrifice values in order to do what’s right for the people around you. And when I saw the results of his latest lab work, I knew something pretty dramatic had to be done. We’ve been together too long for me to lose him young. We have so much more to do. The sanctuary’s just starting off. Without him, I have no idea how I’d pull it off and save the animals. Later, you shall repent. Whatever a man sows, he shall also reap. I shiver, willing myself to think of anything else.

  Lord, forgive me. I have no right to ask forgiveness for myself. Many nights, I pray there is no god. But I don’t really mean it. I toss and turn, thinking of what will come of my eternal fate. For now, I can only focus on the moment smacking me again and again in the face.

  This isn’t easy. It hasn’t been from the start. The pressure for us to leave this town we love is over the top. Every day, more and more gruesome things happen. First, it started with baby chickens—in the form of raw eggs of course—being thrown at the mailbox and the side of the old butchering barn. Now, it’s gotten so bad that Rancher is considering a security system we can’t afford for the end of the driveway. He is outside, right now, working on installing a gate to keep people out of the yard. At least it will keep noisy teenagers from the barn. If he only knew about Henry, the pig they tortured us with outside our yard, he’d lose his fucking mind. There are some things that are simply best kept as secrets. Maybe, I decide, I can tell him about Henry too, when I confess what I’ve done to Ginny.

  Life is hard, like herding cats. People are confused. I get it. We live in Texas. What we’re doing goes against the fabric of the way things here have always been done. But this only makes me more determined to protect the tribe of animals that our maker has sent here for a reason. Sometimes, I think of them like Noah’s wild friends upon the ark. I see myself and Rancher as souls sent here to save them. I tell myself his disease is merely a means to an end. I know it’s silly. I certainly don’t see us as anything like the original apostles. But still, his job was to try to get the world to see their wicked depravities. How is what we’re doing with the sanctuary any different? Saving the animals from lives cut short isn’t so different than saving them from flood. Is it?

  I’m not alone in this. While it feels that way sometimes, like when people walk by me in town with their eyes cast down; I have new friends too. And the support I’ve received from the vegan community—P.E.A.C.E., the Vegan Pride Group, even PETA—makes it all worth it. I shudder, shaking my head as if I’m trying to get the thought out, at what they would think of me if they knew what I have done. Vegans are to do no harm. Like Wiccans, we believe in living humbly. We don’t kill anything—not even something as small as the tiniest of bugs. And here I am, serving up my neighbor for supper. I tell myself not to cry. There will be plenty of time for it later. Instead, I think of the time Rancher lost his shit and threatened to kill the mailman for forgetting to bag the soggy newspaper. I laugh, remembering simpler times when I nicknamed him “Killer” and told him to take it easy. “Jesus, hon. He’s only human. He didn’t know rain was coming. Not everyone’s a farmer.” Oh, how times have changed...

  Twelve hours ago—Killing thy neighbor

  IT’S GOT TO BE ALMOST four in the morning. I can’t figure out what’s taking her so long. Normally, Virginia is home by 2 a.m. I’ve rubber-necked her for two straight weeks as she pulls into her driveway after a late night shift at the hospital, where she works as a surgical nurse. Virginia, I’ve surmised, is a creature of habit. If I’m completely honest, it’s one of the reasons I’ve chosen her. It’s not like I have experience with this sort of thing. I simply figured someone with routines I knew well and someone who was close by would be the best. Besides, God wouldn’t have put her here if he didn’t want me to have access, right?

  It doesn’t hurt that Virginia allowed them to put up the sign in her yard about the best slabs of meat in the county. I can’t even look at it now. To think that less than a year ago my husband and I were as bad as she makes me sick to my stomach. I wait on the big rock in front of her yard, pulled out when they blew the ground up to lay her foundation half a century ago, waiting. In the dim light coming from my own front yard and solar driveway entrance lights Rancher j
ust installed, I squint to get a better look at her stupid make-shift roadside farm with the wagon beside it. The homemade sign for “free eggs” and the other about “honor system” for payment brings tears to my eyes. I know, in daylight, and behind them, lie rows and rows of dead chickens that will never have a shot at life. They lay frozen in time in egg shells never warmed or given a chance to crack. Next to them and the roadside hut of death is the bigger sign the town erected bragging about the killing fields.

  A few weeks ago, on seeing this, I came to this very spot and stole the eggs. I brought them to my own hen house hoping Lucy would sit on them and help them hatch. No dice. A mother hen knows the difference between other hen’s eggs and her own. I have to admit, I was a little disappointed. I’d thought better of her and had wished she’d handled it more like an adoption of souls. Regardless, the sign still stands in front of the stupid pay-by-honor-system shed. It mocks me. I can’t stop looking at it. In shaky black-sharpie penmanship, it reads: “Theft of all food will now be prosecuted. Hands off.” I’ve seen it a million times since I tried to save those eggs too. It still infuriates me.

  How can a woman who is killing animals, wasting their souls like they have no creator, hell, a common murderer, be so bold? How can she call the law over a dozen eggs she sees as nothing more than a dollar donation? Who made her the judge? What gave her the right? Why can’t she see the error in what she’s doing? Why isn’t she the one on death row?