Shelly, you were wondering what the inside of an all-fridge looks like? Here you go.

10:46 a.m.

Several days ago the feeders were running around in the pasture, chased by Ivan and Bruce. I found out later, when I stopped to talk to Ivan in the farmyard, that they were trying to herd one into the stock trailer. Ivan was on his way to take the animal to be butchered. Fool me, I hopped up on the fender to look in at it. Why? I don’t know. In case it was one I would recognize or something.

It was laying down quite comfy, relaxed, and looked at me with its pretty cow-eyes (though okay it was probably a steer), and my heart started to hurt, thinking about what was going to happen to it in a few hours or sooner. Oh yes it will probably be painless and the beast will have no time for fear, but it still seems to me ... terrible.

And yet, I dig two one-pound packages of hamburger out of the deep freeze in the garage later that day, and a beef roast, and carry them across the yard to put into storage in our house where they’ll be handy for thawing and cooking. I’ve somehow made the disconnect that allows me to live below my personal ideals of vegetarianism and non-violence.