Dinner with Friends

My child-hood home was a far cry from what most people would call coveted tourist destinations. My family owned a small orchard and made their living by selling apples and tangerines to the markets of nearby cities. Our land was quite beautiful, a sprawling tapestry of rustling trees and sun-baked grasses that gave of a soft and sweet aroma that I always associated with the smell of peace. My closest neighbor lived at the edge of the horizon, but at seven or eight years old, when the world started to take shape in memories, the house was not quite so far as it seemed to me then - perhaps a dozen acres or so.

Peter, who had only a few months on me, was my best bud in those early years, and he and I would meet halfway between our houses and race each-other to the stream that ran at the edge of our two properties. His parents also knew what it was like to know the land so intimately, as their acreage provided for the animals they raised and sold. Betty was one of their young pigs, and had taken such a liking to Peter and I that she insisted on racing down the plains with us on our carefree childish romps.

Have you ever known a pig? What animated little characters! Betty had a sparkle in her eyes and a spirit to match. She would often roll around in the dirt and, like a dog, beg shamelessly for a belly-rub. She also has quite the unusual affinity for music, flopping her pink little ears and squealing and huffing in her attempts to sing along with our silly children's songs. Her company was, for us, better than human, as she was our third companion even when we went to our "scret" river spot. Once we would reach the riverbank, she would leap into the water just to turn around again and come bounding back at us like a dog, spraying us with water as she shook out her wet, plump belly. Neither Peter nor I were exceptional swimmers, but often we would dangle precariously on tree limbs over the water and giggle furiously at Betty's attempts to follow us even there.

You may say that Peter, at least, deserved his bit of karma when he came toppling off of the tree branch in his uncontrollable fit of laughter at Betty's futile attempts at reaching us. His convulsive glee overtook him, and he belly flopped into the stream, writhing as gracelessly as a cat in a bathtub. I clung to the limb for fear of following him, gasping between belts of laughter, but when it became quite apparent that Peter was fending for his life in the water, splashing about and straining to keep his head afloat, I scrambled down the tree and screamed at him. Stop playing around Peter! It's not funny!

I knew he wasn't playing, but knowing my skills in the water were as pitiful as his, I didn't have the nerve to jump in after him. Betty at once sensed the urgency of the situation. She looked up at me, and in her eyes there was such a fierce bravery at once with a look so calm, as if she wanted to tell me Hush, child, everything will be fine. She plunged into the water and paddled out after Peter until in reach of his frantic, thrashing arms, and once close enough, Peter latched on to her as she waded back to shore.

I have never seen anything so beautiful before or since in my life, and although Peter and I made a silent agreement to never again climb that tree, we never once spoke of the occasion.
We spent several seasons together, the three of us, and were the peas in a pod of our sheltered country lives. It seemed to me then that there could be no end to these happy days, but life cannot remain so simple.

When birthdays of double digits began decaying the innocence of our childhood days, I noticed a distancing between Peter and I. I suppose it is this way with many boys traversing into manhood, taught to stifle silly outbursts of emotion by fathers who think they are doing them a favor - who really believe they are doing their sons good when they demand a sort of hardness to deal with the "real world." Girls must smile and boys must brood - is this really what we want to teach our children?

There was a period when Peter stopped coming around altogether, and when I went to see if everything was alright, his father shooed me away, saying, Peter has made a decision to become a man. What did that mean? What does it mean to become a "real" man? To make a decision that excluded me from his new 'important" life?

Some weeks later, maybe even months, I was surprised when Peter eventually came back around. But something was different about him. I strained to look into his eyes to see what it was, what change was stirred within him. But he guarded them carefully, casting them down as he struggled to find whatever it was he was trying to tell me. When he did finally look up, his eyes terrified me. They tried so hard to be cold, but once he spoke, voice trembling, the shield in his face crumbled I murdered Betty, he said softly, I had a choice, slaughter our pig or never again have my father call me his son.

Can you imagine your closest friend in the world telling you that he had killed your third companion, the one who had sacrificed her own life for his? The one who had always watched over us and laughed with us and never, ever let us down? Do you know what it's like to hear someone you love tell you that he's murdered someone? For Betty was not just a barnyard animal; we never regarded her as a THING to be fattened and placed in a steaming pile upon the breakfast table. No, she was a living, breathing, thinking being who really understood who we were, and where we came from.

After his confession, things were never really the same, and after high school I moved away from country life to the "civilized" one. I can never really understand what it must have been like to be that terrified little boy afraid of losing his fathers love, being faced with such a horrible dilemma. And it's so frightening to think that this is being done all the time, every day, every minute beautiful Betty's are butchered for breakfast, and men and women alike are hardened to deal with the life of the modern farmer, the modern consumer.

Despite her shocking and untimely death, I know now that Betty had quite the good life compared to the millions of animals stuffed in suffocated pens, terrified and lonely. Can you imagine being torn apart from your mother to be reared with hundreds of strangers, prodded and kicked at, living in piles of your own feces and threatened by disease - to be so intimate with such an interminable fear?

I have since heard from Peter. He sent me a postcard with a picture of two happy piglets on it. Immediately that painful knob grew like a tumor in my throat, and I couldn't imagine why on earth he would send me this, of all things. But instead of shredding it out of existence, I turned it over, where he had written, simply, To Betty and To You, I'm sorry. Peter gave up the farming life and began an outreach program to educate the youth and communities about the things factory farms don't want us to hear, don't want us to know: Animals are no more than consumption products, commodities, dollar signs and dividends devoid of spirit. I don't know whether or not Peter still speaks with his father.

Many people have never looked into the eyes of a pig; they have never considered their potential friendships, fears, and wonders. These are animals that are just as loyal and humble as "mans best friend." Could you eat your best friend?