Many years ago I acquired- reluctantly- a couple of pet chickens who werent being properly cared for. I soon came to realise that chickens arent just generic feathered critters but have definite personalities...vicious little Brunnhilde pulling feathers out of big dopey Edeltraud's neck...their joy at certain foods (tinned peas were a favourite, and their own eggs!), finding hiding places to lay (behind the pampas grasses) and the brouhaha one night when I feared a fox had got them...went out to find a hedgehog curled up in their bedroom!)
Anyway, I came to this book entirely aware that beasts arent just dumb meat-in-waiting. And having not eaten meat for some 35 years, felt I could read it cheerfully.
It was, nonetheless, sobering read. Not because of the tales of sheep, pigs, cows and poultry - their abilities, love and personalities - which are quite delightful- but the awareness as you read that these beings are being raised by the million for the abattoir. Even though I dont eat meat, I do, I acknowledge, try to shut my mind to it, to see livestock as things in a field, to not dwell on fact I buy catfood...
It's a similar feel to those memoirs of families that you read...the vivid portrayals of the people...where you know, as you read, that they all met a grisly end in some later horror....the narrative, which should be a joy, has a terrible sadness and piquancy.
I dont think anyone with a heart could ever eat animals again after reading this... ( )