Yesterday I realized that not everything about life on a farm is postcard-like. One such example is the large, multi-purpose barn.
A city girl myself, I always thought that barns were for storing hay and animals. It never occurred to me that it might be used for slaughtering them as well.
So imagine my surprise when I walked into the barn yesterday (I know you read this sometimes, Peter, so don't mind me...) to find our owner's father there, removing the organs and skin from rabbits and hares. Although I don't get queasy often, that scene, coupled with the iron-rich smell of blood, was enough to make my stomach turn.
Now, we only pay rent for the house, the barn is completely and utterly theirs, but our dog and 2-year old son often wander through, so the hearts and various organs (left presumably for the cats and rats), are, well, a little bit yucky.
And yet, I've always wanted to experience life on a farm... what did I expect? And why am I so hypocritical about meat? I hate that I'm one of those people that loves the taste of meat, but prefers to see it wrapped nicely on the supermarket shelf. After all, it's supermarkets and fast-food chains that contribute to the miserable mass-transport of live-animals aboard jam-packed semis and trains.
Back in the days when more people hunted or bought local meat, that sort of thing didn't exist, and animals had a much more peaceful (albeit short) existence.
So you just keep hunting, Peter. Afterall, hunters often have far more appreciation for animals than the average Joe... they know what it takes to take a life, and wasting even an ounce of that animal is tabboo in their world.
It's a long road, but I think that eventually, life in Zeeland will change me, for the better.