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Let me just say one thing: I am not an advocate for killing babies and infants. If someone in front of my local grocery store asked me to sign a petition calling for stomping on the necks of every thousandth baby born, I would respectfully lie and say that I’m not a registered voter to avoiding penning my name to their slip of paper. I’m a caring person, you see. In fact, I’m so caring that my compassion is not confined to our species alone. If there was a similar petition floating around for the eradication of every thousandth Sumatran Tiger born, I would again make up an excuse not to sign.
I wasn’t always so sensitive, though. I used to be a raging speciesist who thought that the world revolved around Homo sapiens alone. And I made my feelings known to everyone I came into contact with, be it through my witty bumper stickers (“Silly Vegetarian—Veal’s for Men"), my snarky shirts (“Make Rack of Lamb, not War"), or my biting conversation…no pun intended. So great was my distain for animals that I would combine fishing and hunting trips into a sport of my own invention: shotgun angling. I’d stand in a stream, cast my lures, and have my trusty double-aught slung around my shoulder to blast any elk that might wander across my path. On my best day, I snared a 15 pound bass and a 12-point stag. Good eats that night!
However, my feelings changed rather abruptly a few years ago. I took a vacation to Nova Scotia to hike a glacier and to try my hand at clubbing seals. On the day of the big hunt, I was simply giddy with anticipation. My excited hands were shaking so violently I could barely keep from spilling my cup of Yuban. Our hunting party, 17 steely souls in yellow waders, set out across the frosty landscape before dawn. Just as the sun started breeching out of the Bay of Fundy, we spotted our prey. White and still as gull drizzle on an ocean boulder, the seals were laid out looking at us without a care in the world. Then, the hunt leader blew his whistle, and we dashed after the floppy beasts. But when I reached the first pup, I couldn’t bring myself to plunge my hakapik into his adorable little skull. At that moment, something inside me changed. I flew home without a pelt in my suitcase, but with nothing but respect in my heart for critters great and small.
That’s why I can’t stand the March of Dimes, which gives money to researchers who perform grizzly experiments on our furry friends of the forest. Since I don’t have the clout of some big-time celebrity like Tony Danza or Michelle Kwan, my soapbox is pretty squat. Instead, I’m making my statement through the automotive accessories I choose. I installed a set of performance brakes and brake rotors, so now I can stop on a dime, get out of my Mustang, pick up that dime, and keep it out of the hands of those kitten-killing jerks. Take that!
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