Of Man and Mink

"The animal who's skin you are wearing was probably caught in a leghold trap. Before being killed, he no doubt tried to gnaw his foot off in an attempt to escape, and was left for days without food or water. All this so that you could wear his skin as a status symbol, to show everyone how rich and fashionable you are."

But I had never actually stayed to see those cards discovered. In truth, my participation was halfhearted at best. It came about more because of my friendship with Dianne, than from any compelling contempt for those who wore fur. I rarely talked about my activities to other people, as I had learned long ago that you couldn't force people to see a point they weren't ready to see. Besides, I'm an individual who generally goes out of her way to avoid confrontation, which now that I think about it, was probably the reason I agreed to participate, rather than argue about why I should or shouldn't. After all, all I had to do was walk back and forth and carry a sign, right? Couldn't be too hard, could it?

And so it was that I found myself dressing for the cold at 8 am one Monday morning. The weather had taken a turn for the worse, so I made sure to wear my warmest jacket, and a scarf. And since I had to stand all day, I wore my brand new comfy boots. Muffled up and ready for action, I shuffled out to the storefront, to join the fray.

I was handed a readymade sign as soon as I arrived, and was instructed to stand in the store's parking lot driveway. I felt mildly silly, but a small, secret part of me was thrilled. I was a part of the action, I was finally doing something! I had joined the ranks of the fighters for truth, and I was walking proud. I had joined the ranks of the great revolutionaries. Che Guevera, Gloria Steinham, Abby Hoffman...they would all be proud of me! The sign read: "Stop the Murder" and I held it high, waving it furiously at passing cars and pedestrians.

Just as I was reaching the peak of my anti fur frenzy, and was preparing to burst spontaneously into a chorus of "We shall Overcome," a man with a duckbill cap called out from the cab of a pickup truck.

"You're all a bunch a' Tofu eating vegetable lovin, tree huggin' assholes! Ya are what ya eat ya know, and you're all brain dead vegetables!"

My fellow picketers responded by raising a chant..

"No more murders! No more murders!"

But I was brought up short, and froze in place until I was forced to move by the surge of righteous activists behind me. As I moved automatically along, I felt the beginning of a strange dread grow in my breast. I wasn't a vegetarian! True, I had cut down a bit on red meat in the last couple of months, due to a dictate from my doctor, but I was hard pressed to give up my allowed bit of rare steak. And then I thought of the nightly meals of fresh fish, and chicken...which turned my thoughts to eggs. I loved eggs. I had never looked at an egg in relation to it's destiny as intended by Nature. I suddenly saw myself as the sole source of destruction for entire generations of chickens. I seemed to grow fangs in my imagination, and turn to a monster, stalking among the peaceful flocks, muttering in a demon voice, "Bring me your unborn children, for I am hungry!"

I shuddered, wondering if all of these other people were vegetarians. What if they found me out? A memory of lunch with Dianne suddenly saved me from panic. She had scoffed up an entire hamburger, right in front of me, only days ago. Relaxing a little, I shot her a conspiratorial grin across the line. Others of my ilk hid among the faithful. I was not alone. Still, I felt rather hypocritical. Spotting a more appropriately worded sign across the lot, I hurried over, and convinced the bearer that we should switch off for a while.

I now had a sign that read: "Killing animals for fashion is wrong!" I found my enthusiasm returning as I rejoined my place in the line, confident in the rightness of my new message. I was once again an avenger for injustice, a bringer of truth to the misled. I joined the chant, and shook my fist at would be customers of this horrible establishment that sold the skins of animals for personal ornamentation. How I pitied those who didn't realize the error of their ways! When break was called, and a new line was formed, I felt a sweet sense of comradeship with my fellows, and traipsed over to a waiting van to get a cup of coffee.

Warming my hands with the styrofoam cup, I wandered over to the edges of our crowd, to watch the new line's affect on the people passing on the sidewalk. There were clusters here and there of spectator's, murmuring among themselves. Occasionally, I heard an irritated snort, or saw a head shaking. I wondered what these people could have to criticize in regard to righting such an obvious wrong, so I edged a bit closer to a group of three women, who seemed to be making the most sport of the line. I stood a ways behind them, close enough to hear, but not close enough to call attention to myself, and feigned a great interest in my coffee, feeling much like an agent in espionage. I found myself fantasizing about the valuable information I could bring back to my fellows. Perhaps I would hear something that would help us to get through to these poor woebegone souls! The first sentence that drifted back to me made my heart freeze. I strained to hear more.

"Did you see that woman in the green suede coat? The one with the leather boots? Can you imagine? She comes marching out to tell us all how we shouldn't slaughter animals for coats, and she wears animal skin all over herself!"

The second woman nodded, then shook her head in disbelief. "I know. Do they think there's a difference between wearing a skin with the fur scraped off, or wearing one with it on? What hypocrisy!"

The third woman nodded emphatically. "Too true. Well, I'll tell you one thing. My boyfriend promised me a rabbit coat this Christmas, and if he gives it to me, you'd better believe I'm going to wear it! They're much warmer than leather or suede. Hmm..I wonder where that woman got her boots? I need a new pair, and those were awfully nice."

As they wandered away from me, chattering, I was tempted to tell her that I had purchased the boots at a nearby shoe store, and for an amazingly reasonable price, considering their quality. But I was too embarrassed. I shifted uncomfortably, adjusting my prize suede coat in a vain attempt to make it less conspicuous. I couldn't ignore the truth of their words, and I once again wondered what I was doing here. Before I had much of a chance to sort out my confusion, Dianne came rushing over.

"Here. Take these pamphlets, and pass them out to the shoppers as they go by. And here's a new sign. You can prop it up by the pole there, and stand by it, so you can give out the pamphlets with both hands."

I took the pamphlets and the sign in a daze, and walked to the telephone pole, wondering if I should have called Dianne's attention to my jacket and boots, and the problems they might cause. With a sigh of defeat, I propped up the sign, taking a minute to read the new message on the placard. It read "Save endangered species! Preserve the wild animals for our children to know!"

I felt as though I had been given a message from the angels. Of course! This was the true meaning of our effort. To save and preserve wildlife for the future of the world, and for our children! The holy light of the zealot once again shone forth from my being. I was a chosen protector of the earth, a beacon of truth for future generations! Once again my wild romantic daydreams unfolded, as I pressed pamphlets into the hands of strangers. I saw children gathered around a monument in a huge, wild park, emblazoned with the names of those who had gathered to save the beasts within so that they might know the fullness of nature, and revel in the diversity of life. In my fevered imagination, one child traced the names with a fingertip, reading them aloud. As each name was read, the group smiled, and nodded, murmuring sounds of awe and thanks. Just as I felt sure that my name would be read next, I was interrupted by a large woman's snort of derision.

I blinked and came back to earth, frowning. The woman was shaking her head at the placard above my head. My newfound sense of heroism gave me the courage to look sternly at her and ask "Do you find something funny? Does saving the world's wild animals mean nothing to you?"

"Look, honey," she drawled, her voice full of a strange pity. "I run a mink ranch. Do you know what that is?"

Still frowning, I shook my head.

"Well, I'll tell you. It's an outfit dedicated to the raising of mink, and sometimes chinchilla, for the making of fur coats." She snorted again, her tone derisive "Wild animals, my foot! Those beasts are born in captivity, brought to full growth in captivity, and die in captivity. Without our breeding efforts, and the good food, they would never be born, or live to have shiny, glossy coats! You would never find the kind of population in the wild that we have on our ranch. Why, minks in the wild are scarce because of the lack of food and habitat for them, not because they need to be trapped anymore!"

This statement chilled me to the bone. "You mean," I asked, "you bring those poor animals into life, just so you can butcher them for coats??" I was shocked and shaken down to the depths of my newly found activist's soul.

"That's right." answered the woman, "Why, it's no different than raising cattle, or for that matter, chicken farming!" She shook her head, seeming to realize the futility of her efforts, and dropped the pamphlet to the ground, stomping away. "Damn bleeding hearts," she muttered as she went.

It was the mention of chickens that did it. Once again, the image of myself as the demon stalking the flocks returned, this time picking up squawking, helpless little birds, and swallowing them whole. I shook my head, trying to clear it. What was I doing here? I knew, in spite of the distaste exhibited by my imagination that I could never give up meat entirely, and I would gladly stalk and kill the first person who tried to divest me of my beloved coat. Suddenly I was ashamed of myself. I didn't know which was worse. Not being able to be the person I wished I could be, or pretending that I was something I was not. I marched back to Dianne, ignoring her startled exclamation as I shoved the pamphlets back into her hands.

"I can't do this, Dianne. I have no idea anymore of what's right or wrong, and I'm beginning to suspect that things are not as black and white as you insist they are. I'm going home now, and I'm not coming back to the picket line again. And, " I added defiantly, "I'm going to eat a chicken salad sandwich!"

I marched off, leaving a thoroughly baffled friend behind me. But I have to admit, the farther away I got from the line, the more relieved I became. I would never be able to explain this to Dianne, but I was ready to join the rest of the human race...the non activist, confused, not sure of all the answers half..and fumble my way through the issues on a more personal level, making my own choices as I learned the facts of things. Perhaps one day, I would know the feelings Dianne spoke of...the feelings of absolute right, or absolute wrong, and I would fight my own fight for truth. But I would never again harass another human being, or do deliberate damage to someone else's livelihood until I had all the facts. I still despise leghold traps, and I don't believe that endangered species should be exploited for any reason. These are specific issues that I am still willing and able to fight for, but I will do so carefully, and with respect for other peoples rights as well. It is not fair to ask someone to do something you wouldn't do yourself, or to insist that your way is the only right way if another's does no harm to anyone. I have returned myself to myself and to my chosen life, feeling much happier with the choice.

Now, if I could only get rid of this recurring chicken nightmare...