One Thanksgiving many years ago, a vegan friend took me to a sanctuary for rescued farm animals, where we patted cows, scratched pig ears, and fed turkeys pumpkin pie. One fellow attendee even gave out hugs to turkeys. En route to the sanctuary Mel and I had spotted a broken-winged pigeon in the street, so we, well-meaning in our young and foolish way, scooped it up to bring to the haven. But to my horror, it died from shock in my hands at a gas station, twitching and rolling its eyes until it shuddered one last time. Mel wrapped the greasy little corpse in a Popeyes towel and stored it in the trunk. After the visit we buried it under a gourd tree along a long-winding country road, far from its urban home.

Epilogue: Mel started eating meat again, and now hunts, go figure.





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