My ex and I used to host a Thanksgiving party at a friend’s house in the country. The first time we did it, our friend offered to “knock a sheep on the head” so we could spit-roast it.
This idea was WILD to me.
I grew up in New York. When I moved to NZ I couldn’t tell the difference between a sheep and a goat. It had never occurred to me that you might KNOW an animal before you ate it.
So I decided to watch it happen.
A friend, horrified, had asked why I would want to. I said it’s easy to be horrified — but if I’m not willing to see it I probably shouldn’t eat it.
It doesn’t mean I’ll like it. It means I won’t be naïve about the world I live in.
The man who did the deed was straight out of the movies. He stood there in Stubbies and steel-toed boots, sharpening his knife on a leather strop. I said, “I bet you’ve had that knife a long time.” He drawled, “This was my old man’s knife.” Perfect, 10/10, no notes.
The sheep were in an L-shaped pen that wrapped around a shed. They drove the unlucky one towards Knife Guy and herded the others around the corner so they wouldn’t get traumatised by what was about to unfold.
He grabbed the sheep’s head, pulled it back, drove his knee into the top of its spine, and slit its throat.
The sheep lay there, twitching. For AGES. There was no way this kill could have been any cleaner but the body holds on for a while.
It’s not what I like to think about at dinner — but it’s important to me that I’m not naïve about how that lamb chop got to my plate.
Which brings me to this week's guest on the
Hunger & Heart Podcast,
Jon Frith. Jon was in the British military for 32 years and now runs the Yukon 1000, the world’s longest paddle race.
He tells me a story about being in the Army, on a stakeout of a high-value target, watching a farm, when a farm dog approaches his team’s position.
It’s friendly. So friendly, it won’t leave.
So they’re stressing. If the dog makes noise, it gives away their position. If someone comes looking for the dog and finds them, it’s life or death. But the dog has no intention of heading back. And the clock is ticking.
They decide they have to kill it.
As he’s telling this story, my mind is racing. Is he actually going to kill the dog? What are listeners going to think? But he’s in the military — surely he’s done worse?
I decide if he ends up killing the dog, my job is to stay curious. I’ve got my follow-up ready: “I imagine some listeners are horrified right now. For those of us who have never been in that kind of a situation, can you help me understand what it’s like?”
I don’t know what Jon’s mission was or whether I would have agreed with it. But it’s easy to be horrified. Easy to sit in the comfort of my home office and never think about having to make a decision like that. Easy for me to say war is bad, without ever having to grapple with the reality of it.
So I’m sticking with my mantra: when in doubt, be curious.
It’s better than being naïve.