Please Don’t Humanize the Lobster: How the Octopus Ruined Dinner for Me

There’s something deeply inconvenient about discovering you have ethical boundaries you never asked for.

For example, most of my life, I happily ate octopus.

Not in some survivalist “castaway on a desert island” way. I ordered octopus because I genuinely loved it. Charred octopus in little Mediterranean restaurants. Grilled octopus over white beans. Tiny curled tentacles drizzled in olive oil at tapas bars where everyone pretended to understand wine pairings better than they actually did.

It felt sophisticated. Adventurous. Slightly glamorous.

And then the octopuses got better public relations.

First came the documentaries. Then came the books. Then came the endless stream of videos showing octopuses opening jars, escaping tanks, solving puzzles, recognizing humans, and generally behaving like underwater philosophers.

Watching My Octopus Teacher was probably the beginning of the end for me. That film didn’t just show an animal. It showed curiosity. Playfulness. Emotion. Connection.

Then came Remarkably Bright Creatures, which somehow managed to make an octopus witty, emotionally perceptive, observant, and more self-aware than some people I’ve met at networking events.

I read the book and immediately fell in love with Marcellus, the brilliant, snarky giant Pacific octopus at the center of the story — basically an underwater therapist with better instincts than most humans.

Then Sally Field had to go and get involved in the movie adaptation, and at that point, there was simply no coming back for me.

And somewhere along the line, things escalated.

The other day I realized I have now joined three separate Octopus Loving groups online.

Three.

At this point, my dog Teddy and my cat Elsa are starting to look at me nervously, like there’s a decent chance I’m about to come home with an aquarium and announce we have a new sibling named Sebastian.

So naturally, no more octopus on my plate ever. Ordering octopus began to feel less like selecting an appetizer and more like betraying a friend.

Unfortunately, this moral awakening appears to be highly selective. Because lobster remains one of my favorite foods on earth.

Not “Oh, lobster is nice occasionally.”

I mean I actively organize parts of my life around lobster. I want it on my birthday, and Christmas, and New Year’s and all special occasions. If a restaurant offers lobster night at a special price, I don’t order one lobster. I order two.

Every year, I make what can only be described as a pilgrimage to Federal Jack’s in Kennebunk, Maine, specifically for the double lobster roll.

Double.

Not because I’m proud of this behavior. But because apparently this is who I am as a person. Which raises an uncomfortable question:

Why does the octopus get emotional protection status while the lobster gets dunked directly into clarified butter without a second thought?

And honestly, I think I know the answer. The octopus has a better agent.

Nobody made an Oscar-winning documentary about the rich emotional inner life of Leonard the Lobster. No bestselling novel has yet explored the hopes, dreams, fears, and complicated family dynamics of a charming crustacean living off the coast of Maine.

And frankly, I would appreciate it if everyone could keep it that way.

Because I already know I’m a hypocrite. I have absolutely no desire to become vegan. I don’t want to become a vegetarian. I enjoy cheeseburgers. I love a tender, juicy Rotisserie chicken. And bacon can wake me up with a smile from a sound sleep.

So yes, intellectually, I understand the contradiction.

I know cows are intelligent. Pigs are remarkably smart. Chickens recognize faces. Fish communicate in ways we are only beginning to understand.

I KNOW.

But apparently, my conscience only fully activates once an animal becomes emotionally relatable.

Please don’t introduce me to an unusually sensitive cow named Emma who likes jazz music and misses her childhood.

Please don’t let a pig paint watercolor landscapes with his snout.

Please do not give the tuna a backstory.

The day Pixar releases a charming animated lobster named Leonard who just wants to reunite with his children, I’m finished.

For the love of God, please don’t humanize the lobster.

Because I suspect most of us live with these contradictions far more comfortably than we admit. We draw emotional lines not necessarily based on science or morality, but on connection.

Storytelling changes things. Once we emotionally “meet” a creature, it becomes much harder to see it as dinner.

The octopus crossed that line for me.

The lobster, for now, remains delicious.

And if I’m being completely honest, I’d like to keep at least a few emotional support menu items left before Netflix ruins those too.