Animal Writings

Nose to nose.

She lets me pet her, and stroke her ears, back, neck, and cheeks.

She is the consummate prey animal; every predator in the wild chases her and eats her.

Her body and senses are designed to detect the first sign of danger, and flee.

I weigh 35 times as much as her.

Yet she is perfectly calm and submissive.

She doesn't flinch as I brush a piece of fur from her eye.

She shows her friendship and respect by cleaning me, washing my face.

She rests her small head in the crook of my neck and relaxes.

Has the hunter ever been befriended by a rabbit?

Has he ever had a rabbit run to him in greeting instead of away from him in fear?

Does he know that when you softly caress a rabbit, you can hear her purr with her teeth?

Or does he just know the gauge of his shotgun?

Why would I want to pulverize beauty? Why would I want to replace communion with coldheartedness?

Hunters have to convince themselves that their bloodsport is acceptable.

In the face of a mountain of evidence to the contrary, they tell themselves they must eat meat.

They tell themselves that without human hunters, nature would be unable to regulate herself.

They borrow the language of kindness to describe cruelty: when they frighten and destroy the animal, they call it "honoring" the animal.

Perhaps it's too easy to be nice to animals. Perhaps if, in order to be compassionate toward animals, you had to climb a mountain, perform feats of physical strength, endure a series of obstacles and hardships, and then be awarded for valor in a pageantry-filled ceremony, more "tough" guys would try it for the challenge. But it's much easier than that. All you have to do to be nice to animals is to make the decision.