im not food, but the world still wants to eat me.
Diary Entry: The Truth About Carnivores
By Paris Sableth
Being part carnivore myself—at least partly—has forced me to confront some uncomfortable truths. Truths most herbivores don't want to understand, or maybe can't. They'd rather cling to fairy tales, those old stories that paint carnivores as wild, bloodthirsty monsters sprinting after their prey with savage grace.
That version of events? It's only part of the picture. The one out of ten times things went right for the predator. The other nine? No one writes those down. No one bothers to tell the story of the wolf starving for days because the herd outran it, or the cougar skulking away after a broken leg made its prey untouchable.
In reality, carnivores aren't the romanticized hunters of legend, nor are they the villains we like to make them out to be. They're something much more mundane, much more nuanced. And now, in a world where they don't even have to exist anymore, I can't help but ask myself: what does that make me?
If the wolf half of me is pointless, does that mean the sheep half is the only part that matters?
Sometimes, when I'm alone with these thoughts, I picture them as little shadow puppets on the wall. A wolf and a sheep, circling each other in a flickering firelight. They dance in and out of focus, not so much fighting as playing a game neither of them wants to win. The wolf lunges, the sheep flinches, and they're locked in this eternal, pointless performance.
It's stupid, really, because neither side can control the other. My wolf half? It's always gnawing at the edges of my mind, whispering these strange, animalistic urges that fully-wolfed carnivores have long since abandoned. I catch myself staring too long at someone's neck, not out of malice, but because the thought flickers, could I? Would they even notice?
But the sheep half is no better. It's fear-driven, a mindless swarm of anxiety that wants nothing more than to blend in, let the herd decide what's safe and follow blindly. The sheep doesn't run because it wants to—it runs because the others are running. That's what scares me most about it. Herds don't move like individual organisms; they're more like hives, collective and thoughtless. They feel safe because they're together, but it's not safety. It's inertia.
Here's the real truth, though: surviving predators has never been about bravery or strength. It's not some noble struggle. It's just nature playing a numbers game.
Most herbivores that get eaten? They're the ones who were already doomed. Babies too young to outrun danger. Adults who snapped a leg on a loose rock and became a free lunch. Disease, parasites, deformities—they're the real killers. Predators? They're scavengers most of the time. Opportunists.
The cinematic scene we imagine—wolves chasing a deer through the snow, their breath fogging in the cold as they close in for the kill—is rare. It's the exception, not the rule. Even when it happens, the prey was probably already on borrowed time. Old, sick, or just plain unlucky.
I remember once, back when I was younger, watching a video in class about wolves. The narrator went on and on about their "majestic" hunting strategies and how they worked together as a pack to bring down prey. But all I could see were the gaps. The failures.
One shot showed a wolf limping, ribs visible under its fur. Another showed a failed hunt where the deer simply outran them. It was like watching a game rigged against the hunter, where the only reason they ever won was because the odds were stacked so heavily against the prey.
The teacher didn't mention that part. She just talked about how "apex predators maintain the balance of nature."
But apex predators? They weren't the strongest of the strong. Not really. The ones who survived long enough to shape ecosystems weren't the solitary hunters—the bears, the big cats—they were the weaklings. The pack hunters. The ones who couldn't survive alone but outlasted everyone else because they had numbers on their side.
The original apexes, before the pack hunters, lived solitary lives. Sleek, powerful, and few. But scarcity killed them off. The scavengers—the weak, the lazy—they thrived. Not because they were stronger, but because they were better at exploiting the scraps.
These days, carnivores are shadows of what they once were. The world they rose from, a world of scarcity, is gone. Industrial farming has made predation obsolete. If the meat is already dead and packaged neatly in plastic, why bother hunting?
In a world like this, carnivores don't need to be predators anymore. And that terrifies me.
Because what's the point of me?
Half of me exists for something the world doesn't need anymore. The other half—the sheep half—is a relic too, trapped in a hive mind that's learned to live in captivity. Domestic sheep don't even think about predators. They're too busy grazing, heads down, trusting the fences to keep them safe.
Sometimes, I wonder if carnivores gave up on purpose.
Think about it. The old stories say they were "subdued by us, by the strength of all herbivore kind, forcing them to bow down to our glory and shut their maws forever, but what if they just got tired of trying? They didn't have to chase anymore. All they had to do was wait for the herbivores to kill each other. Wars, political coups, diseases—it's all free food if you're patient.
Maybe that's why wild animals aren't afraid of carnivores the way domestic ones are. Wild herbivores know the truth: predators don't waste energy on the strong. They target the weak. That's why the wild animals back carnivores, just enough to keep them around. A threat in the shadows is better than letting the domestics grow bold enough to turn on the wild ones.
I keep coming back to donkeys. or rather their domestic counterpart. mules
You know, domesticated animals are usually weaker than their wild counterparts. They've traded survival instincts for dependency. But donkeys? They're different.
They don't just survive—they fight back. A mule in a herd will rally the others, standing its ground and charging predators. Wolves fear them because they don't act like prey. They refuse to run.
I wonder if that's what I'm supposed to be. Not a sheep, not a wolf, but something in between. A hybrid. A mule, something that isn't a hybrid of the two but a chimera.
I can't stand how Beastars or Zootopia tell the story. They frame it like predators and prey are locked in eternal conflict, that the carnivores have to suppress their nature to coexist. But coexistence isn't about suppression. It's about adaptation.
The world doesn't need carnivores the way it used to. But maybe that's not a bad thing.
Maybe the real strength isn't in the hunt. It's in knowing when to stop running. When to stop chasing. When to let the old ways die and find something new.
The shadows on my wall flicker again, the wolf and sheep still circling. But this time, I imagine them sitting down. Staring at each other.
And then, slowly, the wolf lets out a sigh and lies down. The sheep, cautious but curious, inches closer.
For a moment, they just exist. No chase, no fear. Just two halves of a whole, trying to figure out where they belong in a world that doesn't need them anymore.
And maybe that's the point.
Ive won, the sheep says. with tears in her eyes. relieved its all over.
and then. a new enemy rises. it isnt one. its a hundred. Its all the other sheep. and not just them. but all the other grass eaters. they all want one thing. They all want the same thing.
Weve traded the comfort of a reliable enemy. carnivores who wanted something opposite from us. our death. our meat. our bodies. but now. all thats left. is to compete endlessly. against the people who want everything that I want. but there isnt enough of it. to go around.
and the wolf smiles happily. as it sits and waits. knowing who ever falls first. wont matter. because blood will spill either way. and it no longer has to waste its time. opening its mouth. The food will come, and it no longer needs to kill the sheep, the world will kill her for it.