There's always been a nagging feeling that our ideal of freedom is applied far too indiscriminately. On the one hand, I'd like to think that I'm tolerant and would respect people's beliefs until they truly prove to be horrific and beyond belief. Take, for instance, a cult which ritually performs human sacrifice. Those sacrificed are volunteers from the congregation. Under US law, it's illegal, but if its their choice, I can't see how I could interfere. At the same time, I feel like it's my duty to try and convince them its wrong, even though I couldn't necessarily force my views on them.

In your scenario, I'm actually afraid I'd watch, feel upset, and say nothing, eventually extricating myself their ranks. More and more, I have difficulty understanding what gives me the right to judge others. I do it naturally and subconsciously, so the only recourse I have while I figure that out is to keep silent until I know for certain that my judgment is correct.

The other day I was helping out at a friend's farm loading bales of hay. He told me how a lightning strike had killed two of his horses and that his father had buried them recently but he wasn't sure where. My first question was why didn't they eat them. He looked at me as if I were mad. “It's like eating a dog,” he replied indignantly. “It's just disgusting to think about. They have way too much personality.”

I understand why that argument is made, but I've eaten dog. It's not something I go out of my way to do, but while traveling, I wanted to try everything (except balut, which is where I draw the line). In many places, cats and dogs are no better than rodents, scavenging off the people around them. And rather than let the bodies pile up, eating them is like Homer eating Pinchie (he would've wanted it that way). It's a very cold and utilitarian argument to make, I know, but there's something respectful to me about using everything available to you and not wasting.

As for the “ethical” vegetarian issue: so this one is hard for me. On the one hand, I try not to give off an attitude of self-righteousness. But take something that you truly believe is unquestionably cruel. Let's pretend you encounter an individual who believes it's okay to kill and eat dogs. (Put legality issues aside for now). Wouldn't you a) judge their decision as cruel, and b) try to convince them to stop, rather than respecting it as an equally valid decision? I realize public opinion at this time is not on my side, but I think it's illuminating when we use an example that almost everyone agrees is morally reprehensible. And pigs are smarter than dogs.

For this reason, I've always been okay with people trying to convince me to their views. I don't mind when Christians proselytize. If they think I'm going to hell for eternity if I don't accept Christ, frankly I'd wonder what kind of friend they were if they *didn't.*

But anyway, I want to tell you this brought tears to my eyes. It means so much to me that you were part of the joy we felt that day.

Emily

There's always been a nagging feeling that our ideal of freedom is applied far too indiscriminately. On the one hand, I'd like to think that I'm tolerant and would respect people's beliefs until they truly prove to be horrific and beyond belief. Take, for instance, a cult which ritually performs human sacrifice. Those sacrificed are volunteers from the congregation. Under US law, it's illegal, but if its their choice, I can't see how I could interfere. At the same time, I feel like it's my duty to try and convince them its wrong, even though I couldn't necessarily force my views on them.

In your scenario, I'm actually afraid I'd watch, feel upset, and say nothing, eventually extricating myself their ranks. More and more, I have difficulty understanding what gives me the right to judge others. I do it naturally and subconsciously, so the only recourse I have while I figure that out is to keep silent until I know for certain that my judgment is correct.

The other day I was helping out at a friend's farm loading bales of hay. He told me how a lightning strike had killed two of his horses and that his father had buried them recently but he wasn't sure where. My first question was why didn't they eat them. He looked at me as if I were mad. “It's like eating a dog,” he replied indignantly. “It's just disgusting to think about. They have way too much personality.”

I understand why that argument is made, but I've eaten dog. It's not something I go out of my way to do, but while traveling, I wanted to try everything (except balut, which is where I draw the line). In many places, cats and dogs are no better than rodents, scavenging off the people around them. And rather than let the bodies pile up, eating them is like Homer eating Pinchie (he would've wanted it that way). It's a very cold and utilitarian argument to make, I know, but there's something respectful to me about using everything available to you and not wasting.

As for the “ethical” vegetarian issue: so this one is hard for me. On the one hand, I try not to give off an attitude of self-righteousness. But take something that you truly believe is unquestionably cruel. Let's pretend you encounter an individual who believes it's okay to kill and eat dogs. (Put legality issues aside for now). Wouldn't you a) judge their decision as cruel, and b) try to convince them to stop, rather than respecting it as an equally valid decision? I realize public opinion at this time is not on my side, but I think it's illuminating when we use an example that almost everyone agrees is morally reprehensible. And pigs are smarter than dogs.

For this reason, I've always been okay with people trying to convince me to their views. I don't mind when Christians proselytize. If they think I'm going to hell for eternity if I don't accept Christ, frankly I'd wonder what kind of friend they were if they *didn't.*

But anyway, I want to tell you this brought tears to my eyes. It means so much to me that you were part of the joy we felt that day.

Emily

I'll definitely look into Practical Ethics, but I've got to finish Sirens of Titan and As She Climbed Across the Table first, especially if I'm going to be ready for book club when I get back.