A Guilty Conscience Eats Breakfast

A man’s belly must sometimes talk back to its conscience. This morning was one of those days.

The ghost of hunger stalked me for two days. The internal rumblings, those tale-tale signals of a body in the pangs of imminent starvation, could not be dispelled by dialogue. Money for food was not an issue…taking time to eat was. The pursuit of mammon will do this to a man.

In this condition a man reverts to the laws of nature…eat or be eaten, the law of the jungle. Conscience be damned, the body must have red meat, no matter what suffering it may inflict. But there was an edge of conscience still pleading, “At least be merciful, be gentle, and be quick.” I promised it I would…I did my best.

The selection process of the “victim” was somewhat painful. “This one? That one? Another?” They all seemed to shirk when approached, lying quietly or hiding behind one another, surely praying to be overlooked. It took some time to choose, the conscience rudely intruding. Finally the healthiest prospect was chosen. To my surprise there were no shrill cries from it of displeasure, or pleadings for mercy. No, it seemed to know that it was bred for such a time as this.

Since it was small, housing it in the apartment was not a problem. It was confined to a pleasant place out of deference to the complaints of my conscience. It had accepted its fate graciously and was not in any mental turmoil. It slept peacefully alone during the night, meditating on whatever final thoughts the “condemned” have. I hoped there would be no remorse, for the sake of my tender conscience. There appeared to be none.

I am not an inhumane butcher, having had much training in the art of “field dressing,” knowledge common among big game hunters. In the back woods of the south I have aided nature in the natural process of selection, “survival of the fittest.” My weapons ranged from .22 caliber rifles, 12 gauge shot guns and on up to a 300 Winchester Magnum, a virtual cannon. The NRA field manual insists that the shot be accurate, the kill clean. It has always been my creed.

Many squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, birds, deer, bear, antelope, fish and some rattlesnakes have encountered my surgical skill and ended up in the hot grease of a campfire frying pan. This morning was to be no exception, except the grease. No, I intended to eat this meat blood red and raw. No fire was necessary.

As I prepared for the sacrifice, I remembered a hot August evening. My wife was away, but called me later on. “What did you do for dinner,” she asked? “Why, what every red-blooded male has done from the beginning of time…I built a fire of coals, slapped a slab of red meat on the grill and opened a Budweiser,” I replied. “What, no green salad? How crude.” She seemed insulted that her years of training had been ignored.

But this morning my training was not ignored. Prayerfully with compassion I lifted The Sacrifice from its comfortable confinement and placed it on the wooden altar. Firmly, but tenderly, I held it, remembering the promise made to my conscience. The knife was large and sharp and gleamed ominously in the bright lights. I positioned it upon the hapless creature, and with one swift motion penetrated the thick skin, severing its heart and body into two equal parts. Without pain its life ended, its life juices oozing profusely onto the platter while my conscience screamed, “Murderer, killer, inhuman brute.”

Suddenly it was all over. It had been a swift and humane slaughter. Only one thing remained to be done. Without further discussion with my conscience, I proceeded to dine scrumptiously on the luscious, ambrosial, sweet red meat, squeezing its remaining life’s juices into my mouth without remorse.

Later my conscious and belly reconciled, but not without a long discussion on morals. Both were winners…hunger was placated, and conscience garnered a promise that further slaughter was unnecessary anytime soon…or else!

But in spite of my conscience, I do have to say it was one helluva giant, delicious Texas Ruby red grapefruit!


Bud Hearn
May 21, 2009