Eh. My other half can successfully ruin a lamb kebab by waiting for me to get a big mouthful, looking at me with big, soulful eyes, and whispering, "baa. Baaaaaaaa."
The older I get, the closer I get to vegetarianism, out of sheer, squishy sentimentality. Or squeamishness, if you prefer. And I love walking through the fields at lambing time and watching the little cotton puffs hop around like they're spring-loaded.