No Happy Cows. John Robbins

their health.

      I hope you enjoy the book, and I hope you find support here for your efforts to live a healthy life. I write from the belief that we can still break through the control that companies like Monsanto have been exerting over our food systems, and bring our agriculture policies back into alignment with the greatest good of our people and the Earth. I write from the conviction that what the Constitution of the United States calls “the general welfare” is more important than the short-term profits of companies whose products are nutritional and environmental disasters.

      I write from a faith that it is possible to turn things around. If more Americans stopped overeating, stopped eating unhealthy foods, and instead ate more foods with higher nutrient densities and cancer-protective properties, we could have a more affordable, sustainable, and effective healthcare system. We'd be less dependent on insurance companies and doctors, and more dependent on our own health-giving choices.

      We can make healthy choices as individuals, as families, and as a society. We can support farmers’ markets, natural food stores, and organic and locally sourced restaurants. We can put restrictions on the right of junk-food companies to bombard children with ads that make them crave foods that are unhealthy for them to eat.

      We can stop factory farms from breeding antibiotic-resistant bacteria by prohibiting the indiscriminate use of antibiotics in livestock. We can require factory farms to clean up their own waste, and require them to treat the animals that provide our meat, milk, and eggs with a modicum of decency and respect. It's true that this would raise the price of meat and cause some Americans to eat less, but that would be a good thing not a bad thing. It would improve the health of consumers, livestock, and the land.

      If we are going to subsidize any foods, why not make it healthy foods like vegetables, fruits, nuts, and whole grains, rather than high-fructose corn syrup and cattle feeds made from GMO soy and corn? If we are going to subsidize a type of agriculture, why not support family farmers who have a long-term commitment to the land, who are stewards of the Earth, rather than corporate farms that view the land as simply another commodity to be exploited?

      Despite the efforts of big agribusinesses, organic produce is already the fastest-growing and most profitable segment of American agriculture, and the number of farmers’ markets in the U.S. has more than doubled in the past eight years. Despite the clout of Coca-Cola and PepsiCo, many school districts throughout the country are already banning sodas and junk foods. Despite the belligerence of the livestock industry and farm bureaus, states are increasingly passing referenda on behalf of animal welfare. Despite untold billions being spent promoting fast food and junk food, a large and ever-growing number of people are choosing to eat local, natural, and wholesome foods.

      I write to support those of us who are working to build a healthier way of life and a healthier world. I write to support us all in demanding that the companies who produce our food be held accountable for their impact on our Earth, our health, and our future.

      You deserve to know the truth about what you eat, where it comes from, and what its impact is on your life and on the world. The more you know, the more power you will have to take effective and meaningful action. The more you know, the better able you will be to bring your food choices into alignment with your purpose and your passion. Your mind will be clearer, your heart will be more at peace, and your body will thank you for the rest of your life.

       PART ONE

      Caring for All Creatures

      1

       The Metamorphosisof a Pig Farmer

      This story, which I first told in The Food Revolution, has generated such enthusiastic response that I decided to include an updated version of it here.

      ONE DAY IN IOWA, I met a particular gentleman—and I use that term, gentleman, frankly, only because I am trying to be polite, for that is certainly not how I saw him at the time. He owned and ran what he called a “pork production facility.” I, on the other hand, would have called it a pig Auschwitz.

      The conditions were brutal. The pigs were confined in cages that were barely larger than their own bodies, with the cages stacked on top of each other in tiers, three high. The sides and bottoms of the cages were steel slats, so that excrement from the animals in the upper and middle tiers dropped through the slats onto the animals below.

      The aforementioned owner of this nightmare weighed, I am sure, at least 240 pounds, but what was even more impressive about his appearance was that he seemed to be made out of concrete. His movements had all the fluidity and grace of a brick wall.

      What made him even less appealing was that his language seemed to consist mainly of grunts, many of which sounded alike to me, and none of which were particularly pleasant to hear. Seeing how rigid he was and sensing the overall quality of his presence, I—rather brilliantly, I thought—concluded that his difficulties had not arisen merely because he hadn't had time, that particular morning, to finish his entire daily yoga routine.

      But I wasn't about to divulge my opinions of him or his operation, for I was undercover, visiting slaughterhouses and feedlots to learn what I could about modern meat production. There were no bumper stickers on my car, and my clothes and hairstyle were carefully chosen to give no indication that I might have philosophical leanings other than those that were common in the area. I told the farmer matter-of-factly that I was a researcher writing about animal agriculture, and asked if he'd mind speaking with me for a few minutes so that I could have the benefit of his knowledge. In response, he grunted a few words that I could not decipher, but that I gathered meant I could ask him questions and he would show me around.

      I was, at this point, not very happy about the situation, and this feeling did not improve when we entered one of the warehouses that housed his pigs. In fact, my distress increased, for I was immediately struck by what I can only call an overpowering olfactory experience. The place reeked in a way you would not believe of ammonia, hydrogen sulfide, and other noxious gases that were the products of the animals’ wastes. These, unfortunately, seemed to have been piling up inside the building for far too long.

      As nauseating as the stench was for me, I wondered what it must be like for the animals. The cells that detect scent are known as ethmoidal cells. Pigs, like dogs, have nearly 200 times the concentration of these cells in their noses as humans do. In a natural setting, they are able, while rooting around in the dirt, to detect the scent of an edible root through the earth itself.

      Given any kind of a chance, pigs will never soil their own nests, for they are actually quite clean animals, despite the reputation we have unfairly given them. But here they had no contact with the earth, and their noses were beset by the unceasing odor of their own urine and feces multiplied 1,000 times by the accumulated wastes of the other pigs unfortunate enough to be caged in that warehouse. I was in the building for only a few minutes, and the longer I remained there, the more desperately I wanted to leave. But the pigs were prisoners there, barely able to take a single step, forced to endure this stench, and almost completely immobile, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and with no time off, I can assure you, for holidays.

      The man who ran the place was—I'll give him this—kind enough to answer my questions, which were mainly about the drugs he used to handle the problems that are fairly common in factory pigs today. But my sentiments about him and his farm were not becoming any warmer. It didn't help when, in response to a particularly loud squealing from one of the pigs, he delivered a sudden and threatening kick to the bars of its cage, causing a loud “clang” to reverberate through the warehouse and leading to screaming from many of the pigs.

      Because I found it increasingly difficult to hide my distress, it crossed my mind that I should tell the man what I thought of the conditions in which he kept his pigs, but then I thought better of it. This was a man, it was obvious, with whom there was no point in arguing.

      After perhaps fifteen minutes, I'd had enough and was preparing to leave.