Twenty years ago, I lived in San Jose's Almaden Valley, a block away from a dairy farm. On our walks around the neighborhood, we used to pick hay and feed it to the cows.
One day, my daughter named three of the cows: Treemore, Chicken Nose, and Looneycake.
Chicken Nose had a pattern on her nose that looked like a chicken. I don't remember what the other two names meant.
Around that same time, we went to a friend's barbecue. His dad was a butcher, and he cooked the thickest steak I've ever seen. It must have been two inches or more.
"Cooked" may be overstating it. When he brought in the steak on a platter, it was all loose and jiggly, with blood dripping out of it.
When I asked him about it, he said "That's not blood. It's juice!"
I kind of lost my taste for beef after that. Pork too.
But some exceptions apply. I don't enjoy a hamburger or a pork chop, but on occasion I would have a hot dog or a piece of crisp bacon.
I guess if the meat is disguised enough I don't mind it as much?