Being raised on a mini farm myself, I always understood that we raised certain animals for meat and that eventually they would be killed. This was a simple reality that I never really had a problem with. We hunted, we fished; it was just how life was for our family. Our animals were affectionately named things like “Steak”, “Pork Chop”, “Veal”, with the occasional odd ball like “Jean-Claude” and “The Terminator” for several of our most ridiculously huge black hogs. I quickly learned that naming of one of our sweet spotted female pigs “Summer” didn’t do anything other than make me feel bad when Dad sent her away in the back of the butchers van.
But when rabbit butchering day came around I’ll be the first to admit that this experience was still one that even I struggled with…
Leave a Reply