A Story of Exhausting Behavior

Sometimes you wake up and question your worth. Everyone does it, I'm sure. Sometimes, you just can't be sure you aren't taking someone else's place here on this earth, and that person might have been the one to figure out world peace.

Me, all I've done is screw up everything I've landed on. No self pity, here, just the facts, ma'am. Well, three marriages, and this one on the skids already, only three years into it. Funny, now I realize that the length of each marriage has been a shorter and shorter stint, until I am fairly sure I'm not up to commit to another one, if this one's done, I'm done. Damn, but I love this guy.

I woke up one day, maybe in the womb, and said, I think I'll float through this life like a cliche, not becoming anything or anyone of note, I'll not be intelligent enough to get through one course of college level math, will suck at writing papers, and I think I'll call it good.

Everyone wants the big time; that fame, or brass ring, or the gold at the end of the rainbow. Or maybe they want to be known for being a champion for a cause. Me? It was animals, and by extension, people. Yeah, I was gonna stop people from consuming too much meat, which would stop farmers from killing more animals, which would cause the corn that would have been fed to the animals, to be shipped to the Sudan, feeding those starving little kids. Yeah. That was me.

But I'm one of those people who jumps into the river head first, only to break my neck because it is only three feet deep. So, how do you be a part of a movement? You mingle with people at conferences? Get their email addresses, go to their house to plan the next shelter protest? Pass out flyers? Or just shoot the breeze because they are just as gung ho as you are, but just as lost?

I'm one of those persons who believed I was a leader of rebels. But I'm not. I need direction, and I'll weigh it against my to-do list, and see what comes of it. I've been a rebel all my life. From the first time I got drunk and jeered at my father, who whipped me for being drunk, which infuriated him. He whipped me again, and like the cliches I've read so many of since the eighth grade, I said, "is that all you've got?" He had been whipping me with his belt, which didn't carry the same impact as other tools of this particular punishment. He liked the end of fishing poles, they whipped about nicely, made that cool whirring sound as they cut the air, before they cut my flesh. But this night, all he had was what was holding up his pants. Three times, each time harder than the last. I bit my lip trying not to cry. I scarred my lip, I think, trying to hold it in. "Is that good enough for ya?" he yelled. The last bit of sass I laid on him was, "yes, that will do." He yelled some more, fumed some more, but I was upstairs, across the landing and in my room by this time.

Seems one of the cops at the combined Fire and Police station saw me and my sister staggering home, after finding the case of beer Kelly ditched near my house by the bridge, ditched because the cops were watching him, following as they do a souped up car driven by a teenager with five other kids in it with him. That mix just causes trouble, ignites it, or draws it.

They knew my father well, a good ol' boy fireman, good at his job, and quick with a great story and a joke. He could charm the slither out of a snake. Good looking, quick to help anyone, great with motorcycles. Won us from my mother, who lost the custody battle. He made sure to groom us for many things, but the most work he put into us was to disparage my mother. Which created rebellion. Which made me.

Since I was one of the teenage kids in the car the previous night, Dad was at work, I talked my sister into finding the beer with me, breaking the necks off on rocks and drinking it down. Yeah, I know, pretty foolish, huh? I did cut my lip on one jagged neck, but you learn quick to just open your mouth and pour.

I am not a lush, but I was trying to be then. I liked the taste of beer, just not too much of it. All the adults drank the stuff at all the dirt bike rally's, rides and camp outs. Man, it was fun to ride into the hills, just go, for miles, and come back when your gas was low. We three had bikes, my brother, sister, and me. We'd go camping at the coal piles, mountains of slag that slow burned for all the years we went. I'm sure it is still burning, no one tries to put it out, or anything. But I heard they fenced it off from the general public.

After we drank most all of the 10 or so unbroken beers between us, we staggered along the road, and across the field, to home. But we were seen. It wasn't long before Dad's truck was stirring up the dirt driveway and sliding to a stop at the house. It took no time before my little sister was crying even before she was hit. She was sensitive like that. But it was my fault. And it was just part and parcel of the crap I did for attention. I didn't know it was for attention then, but all the books say it was, and I suppose they are right.

I tried to be loved from the git go, I'm sure, like everyone else. But I took all the examples, the movies, the men in my house, the women around me, my lecherous grabby-feely grandad, to heart, but most especially the porn my Dad made available for me to read, as the Oldest Child, and Special, and learned the value of a woman. Now, you just try and not live the lessons you were raised with as a child. Go on, try. Sure, you might beat the lessons at first, but not always. Because you don't recognize them always.

I say this, because my third marriage is struggling. My. Third. Marriage. Dear God, three marriages! I only ever wanted to be attached once, because that is how it is done. Or, was done. In the old days, that is. Still, it sucks to be made to recognize how wrong you are as a person, how many mistakes you make daily.

I am a product of my upbringing. Now, mind you, I dearly love my mother. She made more mistakes than anyone, but she too is a product of her upbringing. As a woman child, she suffered at the hand of her father. She suffered mightily. She came to mother hood a very damaged young woman. She was sixteen when she gave birth to me. My dad was 17, and drunk. But there I was the baby of two kids, who would go on to have three of us.

Is it her fault? Is it my dads? The answer is yes, and no. Yes, he formed my rebellious nature, where I would rebel at any request, any assignment, any good thing that came into my life. Yes, because he destroyed my childhood, like a terrible nightmare, taking my innocence and shaking my security for years and years later. I'm still dealing with that, with how I am to be with a man, what a man wants from me. My mother sabotaged every good relationship that came her way, because she didn't know who else to be with a man. I didn't think I took that one in, but apparently, that was the main thing I learned, was that to be safe, sabotage. If you're secure, sabotage. Oh, my goodness, thirsty? Forget water, have a drink! Sabotage. Clean your house? Sabotage, and this last one is the most insidious.

Why that would be such a problem, I don't know. But it is. I've not cleaned the house in all three of my marriages. I've sabotaged myself, my home, by not cleaning it for far too long. But suddenly, after thinking that my current husband doesn't love me, I realized that he does. But the state of the house is torturing him. I am not a hoarder, nothing that bad, but there is disarray everywhere. Until now.

You know that feeling of waking up while you're talking to someone? The conversation is suddenly in focus, the room richer colored, and your purpose made clear. It was at this moment in our conversation, the moment when his frustration led him to tell me he disliked me, that I knew how to clean my house. How does this happen? From the point of not seeing what is in front of me, to finding places for every bit of stuff, and letting go of everything else? I am an adult, and just learning this? How sad for me; how ignorant and sad. Man, I've a lot of apologizing to do.

I don't care; I don't care where the awareness came from, or that it might be just a bit too late. I know how to fix it and what to do.  The only drawback to this plan is will he give me just one more chance? I sincerely hope so. I tell you, in my life, I've never loved someone so much, or felt so loved, as by him. Until his frustration boxed him up, and crumpled him. Hmmm. I've seen this before.

In his frustration, that nasty bit of unfiltered emotion, and truth, I knew all the damage I had done over the years. Depression will do that. I was depressed most of my life. Though that answers most of the issue, it doesn't fix the current situation. That is my next big prayer, and hope. That we are not too late.

It doesn't help that I pestered him to apologize for his part in the argument that strained the relationship between him and our neighbor. Nor that the neighbor didn't own his part in it, just said that he appreciated it. It didn't help that he came away from it not feeling like the bigger person, but that he had been humiliated. All of this, then the animal rights conference, on top of the No Kill Conference that he really wanted to go to, drove to DC an hour and a half away, couldn't find parking, and came home. With another defeat, and with our stumbling to understand each other, it seems typical of us, to him. Depression doesn't cover what he is going through today.

But hey, I cleaned the house. After the horse left this barn, I cleaned it. I've always had great timing.  

Who, Why?

I'm at it again. I'm trying not to believe I am less than I have the potential to be. I am an artist. I am a writer. I write fine and good poetry; easily understood, easily relatable poetry. So, what's the problem?

Let me see...I am in love, head over heels. But I have not accomplished a goal for me, by me, of me, in my whole life. But the expectations of the "other" in my life, I am expected to accomplish, as we become a "team". My man, love, heart, has placed upon me a set of expectations that I set out to do. Each one of his expectations I took as my own. But they are not mine. They are not what I want in my life, but they are his desires, and dreams. I have tendencies, and I must not allow these tendencies to continue, at risk of my own health, if not my life.

I was born to children having children. I was created by a man who was vengeful, and poisonous, who took my innocence. I believe he did this out of revenge, to get at my mother, because she left him, she defied his will, she made her own life, and she was successful at it. Since she was molested by her father, it would be a most painful thing to her, so he did it to me, and my sister. Of course I cannot prove it, and there is no reason to, as it was so many years ago. I say this not to cast aspersions on my father. It is what it is. Life goes on, if it can. But damn, it sure shapes the way you are to anyone you come across. And baby, I am one damaged individual.

I wanted my father to be proud of me. I wanted him to love me, and smile at me, for doing something. Being someone he could be proud of. The second and maybe the last time I put stock in this dynamic, was when I wanted to be a stewardess, the terminology of the day. "I'll believe it when I see it, " he said.

My thoughts on this now are, really? You would say this to a child who only wanted your approval? The first man in my life, and he crushed me. I didn't know at that time that this was not the first time. The first time was the abuse.

So, I decided there was nothing I could do. I already knew what a woman was to a man, didn't I? Wasn't it what he could get sexually? Of course it was. For years I was allowed to read the manuals, expected to read the manuals, the porn novels, the pornographic art, that he gave to me, telling the others that I was old enough. Special. I don't know what he told my sister when he groomed her, but man, what a prick.

I say all of this to preface the now of my life. My expectations, my desires. I thought that they were simple, and easily attained. I believed that all I wanted in this life was to be loved by a man, and that would be that. But it was never so, no more now than with the first one, but now the difference is, I recognize it. I see that my needs are not trivial, nor are my goals, and desires, any less important than his. They parallel each other, really. I want cruelty to animals to end. I want to set up no kill shelters where I can. I want to teach people the benefits of a vegan diet, not only for themselves, but the benefits for the planet. I want all of this, but I want it my way, through my own direction.

No, I don't know exactly what that direction is. I'm beginning to think it is being by myself, riding my bicycle some 2500 miles from Boyce, VA, to Puyallup, WA, where my family is. I'm beginning to think that no matter how long this takes, I can do it. I'm beginning to think that I must learn how to change a bicycle tire, how to fix a flat with a patch kit, how to gain stamina, and ultimately, I'm beginning to think that I need to ride at least 80 to 100 miles per day to do my goal.

My. Goal. I can't even sleep on the floor with the dogs. I guess I have to start training myself to do that, too. I haven't told my husband my plan. I haven't even hinted at it. For all he knows, my only goal is to ride a bike from Brunswick, MD to Pittsburgh, PA, the end of the Chesapeake Ohio Canal Tow Path (National Park) and Great Allegheny Passage.

But as I look at the C O Canal and GAP, I see that this would be almost 400 miles. That it would be near enough to I-90, which is a straight across the top highway that goes all the way to Seattle. The more I look, the more it puts me close.

My marriage is on the rocks. We have separate rooms, though he still says he loves me. What he doesn't understand is that by the time I train myself out of needing to be loved, I may have restrictions of my own that don't coincide with his needs. To say you love someone, then don't touch them, don't allow for hugs, hand holding, you have changed that love to a friendship. That problem, which he created, becomes my pain. My pain is a problem for me of awareness of my own internal issues, my own personal demons.

What he has to know is that the closer I get to conquering my own demons, the further away from the woman I was to him, the closer I am to being the woman I always wanted to be. I have a feeling that the demands I put on him will have to be addressed by him, or it will create its own set of problems.

The closer I get to my dream of independence, the further away I am from the horrors of my childhood.  I become a whole new 'who' with a brand new 'why'. Life will not be sweeter than that, than losing the shackles of loss, and rape. No, life will not be sweeter.

The War On Life

I've been warned. I am a downer. I am so engaged in my love of animals that I've forgotten who my audience is. I'm sorry, Darcy, you are quite right. But I've a fight now against the slaughter of horses. I think all gentle people will be against that. Don't you? This is, as you know, really, really one I can get behind, and I hope you do.

It doesn't matter if you love animals, or if you don't. The way they are being treated under the guise of "food" or for "humane" purposes, slaughtering animals the way we, and I way "we" loosely, do is one of the most accepted forms of animal cruelty there is.

All of the photos PETA, Mercy For Animals, Compassion Over Killing, United Poultry Concerns, Farm Animal Rights Movement, Gentle Giants, or a hundred other movements post about any animal that is being abominably treated by humans, are horrific. What they are meant to do is to spur everyone who sees them into getting out of their comfort zones, and doing something to alleviate the pain of another living being.

Who are we to say what is cruel or what is humane? If an animal is cognizant of what is happening, is in abject terror, is suffering unspeakable pain, and is absolutely suffering prior to death, that is cruel. The same goes for an animal that is used for its skin. If you wear fur, you are a partaker in its suffering.

The point of this is to change that. There is a bill in the House, still sitting there, that allows horse slaughter houses to be reintroduced into the US. Through an organization called Gentle Giants, a draft horse rescue, I read about this, where the words, "humane slaughter" are being used to make sense of the over population of horses, through backyard breeders, the horse racing industry, and hoarders, who either cannot afford to keep the horses any more, or they don't make money any more, or the good intention was over run by a psychological need to be the caretaker of too many animals, the horse slaughter houses are as inhumane as it gets.

I won't go into detail, but it does not 'down' the horse into instant death, as we would like to or have been led to believe. Often the bolt gun is ineffectual, and only agonizingly injures the still standing horse, or you have the infamous "meat men" of Mexico, who mercilessly stab the horse until they are in pain, disabled, and down, but not out, and then the slaughter begins.

We are supposedly an evolving species. I would beg you to write your congressman, your senators, to ban horse slaughter in this country, ban the transport of horses to Canada or Mexico, for slaughter, and stop the trade in horse meat that France, Belgium, and Japan, eat. But even there, in Europe, there is the struggle to stop the slaughter of horses.

This is a breeding problem. This slaughter is on horses you could have owned, could have loved, and ridden, and taught your kids to ride on. This is on horses that could have loved you.

This bill, HR2112 was quietly passed in November of this year, that takes out a provision that bans government funding for USDA inspections on horse meat slated for export. Please contact your government official and write them a respectful letter stating why you are against horse slaughter in the US.http://www.house.gov/representatives/find/, find your representative, all of them, and write them a letter.  Gentle Giants (http://www.gentlegiantsdrafthorserescue.com/horseslaughter.html)  is the website where you can find a template letter you can personalize to send to your representative and help all of us stop this from going through when they come back in session. It might take a while, but by then, and by God, maybe there will be an overwhelming amount of letters to stop it, that they cannot ignore. By God, then maybe we will win one, for the horses. I will thank you all. Darcy...and Mom! I guess that is you, all. All you.

By the by, I've not put pictures of horses in this blog post, because you expect it. Or maybe, because I cannot find the great one of my draft horse, Bella to put up. Either way, sometimes, the peace of a landscape can do more to engender a sense of beauty and calm, than the picture of the topic, which is in so much need of our help.

The Nature of Mistakes

It's hard not to laugh at this photo. I cannot tell you where it came from, my son posted it on his Facebook page, and I had to lift it.

How many times have you done something, anything, and that wee small voice in your mind says that same thing? I can't count the many times I have heard this voice, and in a micro-second, made the wrong decision. In that micro second, the choice to make the mistake was weighed against the 'what-ifs' of my decision. Of course, as everyone will attest, when it is the devil in the details, he speaks so softly, that you often brush the consequences under the hairline, or out your ears like so much wax. Or, like the dog, you don't make the connection between that tender part and a toy. Wow.

"You are about to make a mistake" resonates with me for everything I've done. From my rebellious childhood, taking whippings because some socially aware part of me knew HE was wrong, and that there was no excuse for that kind of brutality, to needing love and affection, and seeking it in the wrong places. But also from putting off what I know to be true. Like cleaning house.

"You are about to make a mistake" is that quiet voice, that rails against the other one that says it is ok to leave the dog hair piled up along side the stereo on the floor, if I've done the dishes, or baked a fine meal of vegan fare. It turns out, most times that voice, that quiet one, is totally right. Completely right.

Who wants to come home to a pile papers on a desk, when the space was always determined to be more or less a sacred work space? Ever heard that Tibetan shepherdess who wailed/sang on YoYo Ma's album of World Music? That haunting, plaintive, sound that speaks to some place in your soul? Every time I come home to see that the pile of papers, or dog hair hasn't moved, my soul cries that same sound. It's eerie.

So, I learned to listen to that voice. Ok, admittedly, it feels like after the horse left the barn, but I'm still working on it. My biggest take from that voice, is not to give credence to 'things'. Don't get me wrong, I love things. I love gadgets, jewelry, shoes, and clothes, and books, oh, especially books. But sometimes, when they take over my emotions, it is time to rid myself of stuff.

My sister has a rock solid relationship. She suffers her ups and downs, I'm sure. I know her life, and her husbands' lives are not what they pictured, who's ever is? But they believe in each other's heart, and know that their souls are intertwined. When something goes wrong, they force themselves to talk it over, and work it out. This is the norm for so many people who are committed to their relationships, and to their futures, that it isn't worth saying. But for me, I've hid behind blinders that allowed me not to see the immediate; not to focus on what is obviously in the way of what could be. Oh, that devil, he is an insidious little demon, isn't he?

The tar balls of problems not addressed has been something I've had to learn the hard way. I learned through my ex that you need to tackle everything now. Do it, get it done. Procrastination is not my friend. (Oh, shit, really? We were so close!) From my beloved now, my true love, I've learned that I've ignored the obvious for far too long.

I will be the first to admit, I'm not a detail person. I will also be the first to say I try really hard. I do. Except with the house. Is it my rebellious self? The girl who used to fight every edict my father put forth? or my stepmother, who like every other stepmother to a kid, was Cinderella's nemesis, as much as she was mine. I know that to be true.

In my life, it was the way I survived, the way I thrived. There was so much wrong in my house after my mother left that place, and I've never begrudged her that freedom, not any more. The wrong came from my father, and that should be left in the past. It should, I should not be taking that baggage with me ever. Never again to live it. But like those mistakes that you make, that is when they thrive, like mosquitos after the sun is low, they come out and feed on your blood. They thrive in the times they should not. You wake and realize that voice has been talking to you all night long.

"You are about to make a mistake" like the dog in the photograph above, I will remember this one. I think I will always think about snapping my teeth onto some very tender part of my body. From now on, I will heed that voice. Oh, yes, I will.

Hammer Point Activism

It is pretty standard for someone who is new to something great to become overwhelmingly pushy about it. Or, when they've done it for a number of years, that some people are still so focused on that ideal and not easy to deal with. I'm sure that my friends and family will say that this is just what I've become. Well, perhaps.

My sister, a great humanitarian, is this way about the plight of the poor in Mexico. She will fight tooth and nail to change your mind about the border area between Mexico and the US, and the hard working people living there. She will dispute any and all of the wrong and hateful ideas spread about the Mexican Illegal Immigrants in this country. I cannot deny that she is right. I wouldn't even try.

The one thing Darcy has done, is to be ground into a cause that makes her shine. She moves and breathes the beauty of the people, and forwards their right to work, and to be treated fairly. And I support her wholly. Who are they but reflections of ourselves? If our country were in the plight of Mexico, with no government to speak of, no laws, no safety for the people who would speak out, would we be any different? I'm sure I'd leave this place, and search for a way to make my family's lives more comfortable, with an income that would support them in an emergency, or just daily. We have it very, very, good here.

Now I have a cause, that supports the movement to end suffering of animals, that ultimately would be enabling food to be distributed to countries that could use it, and lessen the pollution of our rivers, air, and land.

My goal is no less than hers. My goal, though, is not to attack anyone who eats meat, but to ask everyone to take one or two days per week, and eat none. No meat for two days will ultimately save thousands of animals per year. The more we save, the less are bred. The less there is demand, the fewer animals go to slaughter. And the more farmers who grow corn for feed, will sell it to the nations whose people are starving. That is a win-win all around, I must say.

If you found out your neighbor was slinging the dog around his head by one leg, you would do everything you could to stop him. I am doing the same thing. My tach is to take it to the kitchen. Try black beans and rice, with cumin, salt, cayenne, corn, onions, and cilantro, and avocado, in a tomato wrap and salsa. Or tahini garlic sauce on your baked squash. Or the thousands of recipes that make me drool, but do not contain meat.

That is my cause. It is not to attack, no more than my sister would attack anyone who besmears Mexicans. It is to plead with everyone to help so many causes, by doing one thing. If you eat meat, that is on you. It is your issue, and between you and your conscience. But you help animals by taking the simple, fabulous step of going meat free two days per week. Would you do that? Two days, every week?

This doesn't even address the benefit to your diet. Ha! Of course you will lose weight, you are doing everything different! No meat, milk, eggs, you can't help but lose weight over time, more so than any other diet. I'd be willing to put money on that one. (no I wouldn't, I have none to wager, but if I did...)

Smooth and Greener Days

Against the impressions and opinions of others, my son has kicked the nasty monkey off and away from him. This is good news, as good as it gets.

He may not have all the answers, he doesn't follow my instructions, but his instincts on timing were spot on, this time.

How can I begin to breathe easier now? I am conditioned to worry, and to fret. Please drive slower; please quit smoking; please eat better; take vitamins; exercise; read. The list of please do's gets old, and is like an old torn and tattered suitcase I'd much rather leave on the side of the road, abandoned.

I will try. I will strive to leave the old alone, and go for the new. They, he, her, she, them, they are old enough to make their own mistakes, to make the list of please don't's for their own children and categorize them and publish them as they will. With the history these kids have, they have plenty of rules and fears to choose from.

It is widely held that my parenting skills suck. They did then, and surely, they would be different now. But I don't have to worry about that, now that my children are their own people, are finally out from under the alcohol, drugs, and all the affectations of rebelliousness. They have experienced life, like I never did, but they did it, and have a catalog of experiences to chastise their kids about.

For me, I am done. I will love them, always, and I will be there for them, but no longer do I feel the need to hover, to meddle, or be opinionated about. Just be aware, "Kids, if you ask me, after you've told me the truth, I will tell you. Good or bad, I will give it to you, filters be damned. I deserve a break, though, and by God, I am taking it.  I've got a lot of things I need to do, and I don't want to worry about you."

I can breathe now. I don't want to think about what good or negative things can come up to break my calm, though I'm having a hard time turning off that switch. I want to savor the sober; the mother; the working stiff. I want to savor the triumphs of my kids, for they are wins, and they are winners.

A Conference for Animals

It is the usual course of things to change over time. One's causes take on a moral shift as one ages, and gains wisdom, IF one thinks about things deeply enough. I've known a great many people who do not want to be bothered by things they cannot change. Or by things they'd like to see changed, but don't have the energy to fight for. Such is life.

I went to an animal rights conference over the weekend, here in Virginia, and the things I'd taken for granted prior to this, I've no longer the moral ignorance to do so.  That is beyond my moral compass to put on blinders, and go about my business.

There was a woman there who was passionate about child slavery in the chocolate trade, where children lose their lives so we can have a treat. She pointed out that the loss of ones' reproductive rights, as it has been in animals, is also happening in women, in this day and age. She pointed out the dichotomy of being vegan, when the biggest animal of all also suffers in the fields our food is grown in, that the lifespan is only on average 49 years for a strawberry picker in California.

Where does one draw the line? Is that something I must choose? Which animal suffers so that I might eat? So that my conscience is clear, and they don't die because of me? So that their blood is not on my feet, or on my table? It is not easy, but it doesn't have to be an either or.

At this conference, there are animals from every aspect of life who suffer at the hands of humans. Our pets, who are bred, and hoarded, and fought, and discarded; our cattle who are bred, and their babies are ripped away, and their milk is poured into great vats, while their babies are fattened for veal, or made into steers for beef. Then they are bred again, so that the process is repeated over and over, until they cannot be milked again, cannot be bred again, and are slaughtered.

Our pigs, whose plight has been in the national media for a time, who are bred and put into "gestation crates" that are not big enough for them to turn around, to move, to even see the babies that are born from them, and their babies are taken from them. The cycle repeated, until the sow, so intelligent, becomes crazed with this repeated brutality, tries to kill herself. Not unlike a human put into the same position would undoubtedly do.

Chickens, whose nature is so ignored, their ability to act as birds so downplayed, that the crates and cages they are forced into in such great numbers that they are likewise unable to move, beaks cut so they do not peck, will often starve to death, it is unthinkable to put a human in the same conditions as we will over and over again, subject the animals to.

It is so well known that the cost of raising a pound of beef is a lopsided, ridiculous number ..."March 1, 2001 -- To date, probably the most reliable and widely-accepted water estimate to produce a pound of beef is the figure of 2,500 gallons/pound. Newsweek once put it another way: "the water that goes into a 1,000 pound steer would float a destroyer." (http://www.vegsource.com/articles/pimentel_water.htm) And yet the Beef Industry claims it is only 441 gal. per pound. They distort, so you can keep being ignorant. At the rate the earth is heating/cooling, water will be the next thing fought for.

When a person looks at where their food comes from, how it is raised, and most importantly, how it is killed, I believe that most people would become vegan.

It is not true and a total falsehood to assume that because the face of the animal does not show emotion as we do, does not express anxiety, fear, trauma, like a human, that there is none of the same emotions we feel, that is speciesism. They do in fact feel the same emotions, will suffer the loss of another, and become petulant, loving, angry, and forgiving. Animals feel pain.

There is no doubt that if the killing that is effected in the poultry industry, say, were to be effected on the human race, there would be hell to pay. The difference is, that those same people who claim to love animals and then go eat a bucket of chicken, a fish taco, or horse, or a hamburger, are not understanding what their stance really means. The blood that is spilled, the horror that is felt, the pain and agony that the chicken, fish, pig, cow, or horse, endures before they finally succumb to death, it is unspeakable, and unimaginable.

I went to this animal rights conference knowing these things, in the back of my mind. I am grateful that the videos were optional. The undercover work that these brave people do so that we can know where our food comes from, I didn't have to see. But I listened. I came to know that if people cut down on their consumption of meat of any color only twice weekly, many lives are saved. If they determine to buy at organic, family farms and visit the meat, the chickens, the cows, the pigs; if they recognized that fish are suffocated along with sea turtles so endangered, for their tuna sandwich; dolphins, with whom so many people can relate, are drowning in the nets of fishermen; if they understand that the backyard breeder of horses is feeding the European demand for horse meat; if they went without anything that lives, and fights to survive, we could change the world.

It only takes two days per week, to affect real change. I am begging for people to start with one. Meatless Mondays. What an easy thing to do! There are so many recipes, so accessible, it is nothing anymore to eat like a king, and taste the pleasures of green. Ask me for a recipe. Ask me for two, I'll get them for you. I only ask for this, because it matters. The eyes of the horses going to, and being slaughtered tells it all. I'd ask for everyone to be vegan, but that is another blog.