Welcome Home

For some of us, the coming home was inspired by a compelling photograph, a disturbing video, a friend’s encouragement. For me, it came in the form of a young calf on his way to slaughter.

Up until the day I met him—or, rather, the day he was sent off to die—I viewed myself as a good animal lover, by treating cats and dogs well, not wearing fur, and doing my active part to stop the annual baby seal slaughter. But all the while, I was eating animals. I was complicit in an unseen, unheard, and unimaginable suffering.

Those many years ago (and they have been many), I had befriended a cow who lived on a small ranch not too far from home and, after school, I’d commune with her, feed her apples and scratch her back. I liked to think we both looked forward to the visits; they had become a routine part of our lives.

How much did Cow trust me? A lot, I would say. When her calf was born and less than a week old, she brought him from across the field to greet me.

Not more than two feet away, her baby laid down in the grass, and Cow began to groom him, right there in front of me, as if I were part of her family.

I felt honored. I was honored.

So imagine our pain as I lay in my bed that night with an opened window, crying as I listened to her crying in vain—still mourning the loss of her baby, a week-old calf who’d been hauled to the vealers that morning.

Hers was a cry I have never forgotten; it cut through the dark of that night like a razor, and through the center of my soul in its wake.

The shock was profound; how could I have missed it all those years of dutiful animal defending? I was eating them—their legs and faces, their livers and entrails—and somehow believing my actions were sanctified by some god, justified by some necessity, and that every one of those beings gave up their lives—and their babies—willingly.

I haven’t eaten an animal since. I owe my awakening to that sad and beloved little calf on his way to slaughter and the mother who painfully mourned his loss. The price they paid wasn’t worth it, but still I am grateful for the homecoming they gave me, for the salvaging of my soul.

In their honor, I founded The Animals Voice.

If you’re reading this, I have been redeemed. I am less alone out here: you’ve crossed over, too, come home also; that is, re-found your soul. So, welcome back. The animals and I have been waiting for you.

There is so much yet to do. Please, fight this fight with me. Tell the animals you’re listening.

Be their voice.