The Meat Bank
The meat bank was where healthy animals were brought to when they had grown just enough dear; it marked the lines between where humans loved their animals as family and where they loved them as dinner.
They took in anything from goldfish to lions; exaggerating, of course; they’d rather let the goldfish slap about in the drains and the lions enjoy a meal of their owners in a cage. But, they served the town like faithful dogs; dogs were a delicacy, burying every man’s burden of bones in a frozen cellar to be unloved. It was an experiment in moral education, they claimed, the government; to measure human sensitivities with the material things that they are born glued to; like how a cousin tossed an old hat and a condom in the Ganga; the old hat being his father in law and the condom, his. Another adopted nothing, to shun the very possibility of a material attachment; he’s a nudist on a sun-stroke beach. But we have more sensitive gentlemen at the top; they let us save our love in frozen chambers. But only until the day arrives when you prove your indifference and un-love. They let you withdraw your stashed animal and usher you into the kitchen for a final few moments. A zero Fahrenheit facility, the blood hangs in stalactites from the kitchen hooks; while the floor displays drag patterns like tie and dye.
“So how do you want your cat? Minced or diced? Scrambled or in a pie?”
Two years after I was forced out of my relationship with Calf 231, as a rebellious young man, I let myself into the freezer against the law and broke my way into the cattle chambers to find 231 all grown up and proudly building family trees with my neighbour’s 431 and 232. The sight brought tears to my eyes.
I walked out wondering what they had destroyed. Love?
They took in anything from goldfish to lions; exaggerating, of course; they’d rather let the goldfish slap about in the drains and the lions enjoy a meal of their owners in a cage. But, they served the town like faithful dogs; dogs were a delicacy, burying every man’s burden of bones in a frozen cellar to be unloved. It was an experiment in moral education, they claimed, the government; to measure human sensitivities with the material things that they are born glued to; like how a cousin tossed an old hat and a condom in the Ganga; the old hat being his father in law and the condom, his. Another adopted nothing, to shun the very possibility of a material attachment; he’s a nudist on a sun-stroke beach. But we have more sensitive gentlemen at the top; they let us save our love in frozen chambers. But only until the day arrives when you prove your indifference and un-love. They let you withdraw your stashed animal and usher you into the kitchen for a final few moments. A zero Fahrenheit facility, the blood hangs in stalactites from the kitchen hooks; while the floor displays drag patterns like tie and dye.
“So how do you want your cat? Minced or diced? Scrambled or in a pie?”
Two years after I was forced out of my relationship with Calf 231, as a rebellious young man, I let myself into the freezer against the law and broke my way into the cattle chambers to find 231 all grown up and proudly building family trees with my neighbour’s 431 and 232. The sight brought tears to my eyes.
I walked out wondering what they had destroyed. Love?
Comments
Where is this place?
thanks for stopping by!