When the Cow Looked Back

                              Painting above my table at an Argentine restaurant in Lisbon.

It was in Lisbon, at an Argentine restaurant, that I first felt my conscience stir. Above my table hung a large painting of a cow’s face, its eyes meeting mine as I ate a plate of beautifully prepared beef carpaccio. The meal was exquisite, the setting warm and convivial, yet I found myself oddly unsettled. I kept looking up at the painting, then back down at my plate, aware of a quiet tension I couldn’t immediately name.

Not long after that evening, I began to notice a subtle shift in myself. At the market, meat no longer appeared as it once had. I would think, Yes, I love a steak, and then hesitate—seeing not just the food, but the animal behind it, as if it were looking back at me again.

Lately, I’ve found myself quietly turning away from meat. I look at it in the market and think, Oh yes, I love a steak—but then the price is too high, and at the same time I have this image of the cow looking at me. The same thing happens with lamb chops, with chickens, with pork. I find myself imagining each animal, as if it were asking, “Why me?”
So I thought perhaps I should try being vegetarian. But the truth is, I’m not especially fond of many vegetable-only dishes, and that makes the idea less appealing. I began asking myself what it is about meat that is bothering me, and I think it comes down to that moment of recognition—the sense of the animal as a living being, not just food.

My son is a farmer, and he raises animals for meat. He and his family are very careful about how their animals live and about whom they use for processing. They believe—and I trust—that the animals are treated humanely. I know this is worlds apart from industrial livestock practices, which I find deeply disturbing. There is something important to me about animals being well cared for during their lives and handled with compassion at the end.

These thoughts led me to ask my usual source—AI—about when and why humans began eating meat. What I learned made sense to me. Meat was available. Early humans observed other animals hunting and eating prey. As they developed tools and skills, they were able to hunt or scavenge animals themselves. With the discovery of fire, they could cook meat, making it easier to digest and more appealing. Seen this way, eating meat was not a moral decision but a matter of survival.

Today, of course, the situation is different. For many of us, eating meat is a choice—and therefore potentially a moral one. That’s where I find myself uncertain. I’m not quite able to commit to avoiding meat entirely. I worry about getting enough protein. I’m not very fond of soy, and although I adore cheese, I’ve been warned to limit it because of cholesterol issues. I do love nuts and eat them often, but I’m not convinced that a fully vegetarian diet is right for me.

So for now, I’m thinking rather than deciding. I’m trying to balance my desire to reduce animal suffering with the need to nourish myself properly at this stage of life. At nearly 84, with low bone density and high cholesterol, this feels less like a moral puzzle with a clear answer and more like a careful, ongoing negotiation.
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I’ve decided, at least for now, not to decide. I’m allowing the question to stay with me, rather than pushing it toward a resolution that doesn’t yet feel true. At nearly 84, I’m learning that not every question needs an answer—some ask instead for presence. I want to remain awake to animal suffering and equally awake to my own need for nourishment, and to move forward with care for animals, for my aging body, and for the complicated space where those concerns meet. For now, I’m content to live with the question, trusting that attention itself is a form of compassion.