The Skeletons in Jennifer’s Closet

Excerpted from All American Vegan.

I used to work in a specialty cheese shop. I was surrounded by cheeses from around the world and I knew the unique history and characteristics of each of them. Blindfolded, I could tell the difference by smell and taste. At the tender age of 20, I was a gourmet, a bona fide connoisseur of artisan cheeses. Every day, I lived, breathed, ate, and according to my roommate, smelled like cheese. I was proud of that at one time. Even after becoming vegan, I pined for cheese. At least, I used to until I met someone who made me lose my craving forever.

“Drop calf” is the industry term for baby cows who are taken from their mothers to be sold for slaughter. To a dairy farmer, a baby cow is competition for his mother’s milk and therefore an unnecessary cost. Along with animals the industry considers “old” or “worn out” because their production has slacked, “drop calves” are sold to the highest bidder at stockyard auctions throughout the country. These are the animals who end up in pet food or in cheap, frozen TV dinners. They also have their stomachs scraped after being killed for rennet, an ingredient in cheese.

As part of my work with an animal rights organization, I visited auctions to document what I saw. And what I saw was heartbreaking. But one particular image still haunts me: a tiny newborn calf covered in amniotic fluid, lying all alone in the corner of a dirty pen one bitter cold morning. Barely a few hours old, he looked bewildered, fearful, and in desperate need of his mother. “If he survives,” said a worker when I asked about him, “he’ll probably sell for a dollar or less.” One dollar. That is what his life was worth to the dairy industry.

Since that moment, the thought of eating cheese or anything made from milk literally turns my stomach. Because now, whenever I see such foods, I see him too. I see his disoriented expression. I see him shivering alone in a dirty pen. I see him cowering in the corner, wet with amniotic fluid. I see him again and again and again whenever someone asks about my veganism and then tells me they could never give up cheese and other dairy products. “I love it too much” they might say, searching my expression for some hint of agreement. Instead, I think of the baby cows that milk really belongs to, the milk that is their birthright, and upon which their very lives depend. And I see it cruelly taken away because the person standing before me likes the fleeting taste of pizza, ice cream, or a glob of camembert spread upon a water cracker. And I think: is that what their lives are worth?

Got milk? Never again.

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