Am I a monster, or just someone who lives in the country? By David Sedaris  Illustration by Mikel Jaso Our British friend Luke, who is red-headed, and a shepherd, turned over a five-month-old lamb one afternoon not long ago, and when he discovered that it was male he carried it from the pasture across the lane from our house in Sussex, where the ewes live, to the field behind us, which is like a playground at the junior high they might have in Hell. “Go Demons!” Or “Go Rams!” Same thing, really. I know you can’t hold animals to human standards. Cats don’t kill songbirds because they’re innately cruel; they do it because it’s in their nature, just as it’s in a wolf’s to rip the throat out of a calf, and a rabbit’s to chew through the cord you’re using to charge your laptop. That said, rams are assholes. We’ve had them on our property for five years now, a slightly different mob every summer, and each new addition is meaner than the last. Light a bonfire in their pasture and they’d likely headbutt the flames, just to show them who’s who. Plus: Read more from David Sedaris about his fraught interactions with animals, including his childhood attempt to raise sea turtles and his skepticism of pets. Support The New Yorker’s award-winning journalism. Subscribe today » | 
No comments:
Post a Comment