As soon as I walked in the barn door, a mason jug of apple-flavored moonshine was thrust into my hands, I heard power tools starting up, and there were two large porcine heads on the adjacent table.

Every Saturday needs to be like this past one.

So I eat meat. I am not naive about doing so. When you put aside the bacon-themed novelties and the excitement about being part of a pig butchering and the intoxicating prospect of obtaining forty or fifty pounds of fresh pork and the little grunts we make during a meal of pork belly tacos, it’s sobering to remind yourself what actually has to happen. It is also essential that we occasionally do so. This was my long overdue first time.

I watched the little piggy snuff film. It was captured on a smartphone, and it only seemed respectful to watch the animal die. I watched the pig clawing desperately backward into the corner of the pen, and I watched its stubby little legs flailing helplessly as the animal was grappled and forced to the ground. I felt its soul-chilling desperate final sound lingering in my diaphragm as the act played itself out.

I am at peace with what I saw. But it was not a something I can just un-see.

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