Slaughter Part III

So given the Country Code of Conduct, or the CCC, after about another 1.5 hours of cows crying at an awkwardly obvious decibel, we decided to do the little that we could: sneak up our lane and hide behind an Eucalyptus tree to get a better view of her property.

It was so simple that is was unbelievable. There in the driveway was a cattle car. That was it. A Ford 150 pulling a medium-sized cattle trailer. It looked like it could hold six cows comfortably, eight if it was a rush order. The engine was off, there was no sign of human activity, and yet the cows were absolutely terrified. Somehow, somehow! they knew what that trailer meant. How the freaking HELL could they know that? They knew that the ones getting onto that trailer weren't coming back. They knew that something horrible was going to happen. I have seen dozens of trucks and trailers come and go from that ranch, but never, ever, have the cows responded like they did this night. And it's not like the slaughtering took place in that trailer so the smell of blood alerted the herd. It was simply a transportation device. That was all. And yet. And yet they sensed it. They sensed it. To say they were just responding to being separated doesn't work. These cows had already been through the separation of the calves from the mothers; this is a part of raising cattle, and we have now lived here for two calving seasons. We know what those cries sound like. They are absolutely horrible to hear, but never have we heard anything close to the fear and protest we heard the night that slaughter trailer came. I wrote in my last post that the sounds from the cows this night had layers like a choir. Who was making all the noise is conjecture of course, since I was across the street hidden behind a tree, but I'm going to do my best to describe what it sounded like to us.

 First we heard the babies (again, I'm not sure, but if my mama was being led away to her death and I was a cow, this is what I would sound like). They were crying. This is the only word I have to describe it, but to be truthful, crying is almost an euphemism. It was closer to screaming. Over and over and over and over again. We are used to the sounds of cows, as we are with coyotes and foxes and horses. (FYI, most of us have never actually heard a fox, but they seriously have the most disturbing cry of any animal I have ever heard in my life.) But that is how we knew these cries were not normal. These were urgent; these were screams. And they wouldn't stop. And as if these were not bad enough, on top of them were the cries of the mamas, and on top of them were the cries of the rest of the herd who seemed to know exactly what was happening to the ones being led away. Normally, any group lowing lasts roughly 15-20 minutes. This time is went on for 2, maybe 3 hours. It was excruciating to witness.

I don't write this to convince the four of you reading this of anything. I write this because it has now been three months since this night and still I can't forget it. I have avoided writing about it because I know it is an uncomfortable subject and telling people anything that makes us have to question our actions makes us act all crazy. But here's the thing: I have watched the unimaginably cruel PETA documentaries. I have read the heart-wrenching literature by animal rights groups. Both have made me sick to my stomach and horrified at that which humans are capable. And two days later, I'm pulling into In N' Out. I'm not sure how this strikes you, but to me, it's sort of effed up.

I am trying hard to think of a clever ending that helps you feel like there's an end to this issue like they do on NPR so we don't actually have to do anything, but I got nothing. All I got is my gut, which is telling me that there is no end to this story, which I hate by the way, because shit without an ending is messy and if there's anything humans hate it's shit without an ending, but it can't be helped since I said I'd be honest and so this one has no ending because I don't have one. I'd love to say that I've made a solemn vow to never ingest another living being again. I'd love to say that what I heard with my own ears and saw with my own eyes that night was enough to convince me that animals are so much more than fodder for my table. And actually it did. And it also didn't. I have since eaten about 90% vegan ( not just vegetarian because once you open Pandora's box - the myth, not the website - you find that animals are mistreated in every single industry that benefits humanity), but when I'm depressed or PMSing or hung over, all I really want is cheese and meat with a side of bacon.  And guess what? I eat it. What a friggin' cusshole.

So I will leave us all with this: When we think of cows from now on, know that they are more intelligent and emotive than our Manifest Destiny fairytales taught us. They create bonds and have feelings. True, maybe they can't buy flowers or open the car door, but that doesn't make them any less sentient. It takes a hard heart indeed to ignore these truths in order to feast on fillet mignon or rib eye. Even if it is superbly BBQed.

Slaughter Part II

Disclaimer: I really, really want to insert humor wherever I can into this post to lighten the mood. I truly do. The problem is, I can't find a single place where it is appropriate. I know everyone always warns that if you want people to read, you must stay neutral and PC in all things, but in this situation, that would be totally pathetic. I can't do it. Even though what I heard that evening was profound enough to still impact me three months later (which is really saying something considering my average impact timespan is roughly 3 days), I'm not going to exaggerate or dramatize it. I don't think I have to. Hang on real fast; I need to pour another glass of wine to continue.

So my blessed neighbor doesn't do the slaughtering at her ranch, which every neighbor within a five mile radius is thankful for (turns out, so are the cows). I have heard told my whole life the wonderful fairytale that the animals we eat are too stupid to know what's happening to them. Well, whoever made that one up has clearly never lived near my neighbor.  In the ten months we've been here so far, I am certain that this has happened before, but for whatever reason I've never noticed. Probably too busy grilling, frying, baking and sautéing beef.  Unfortunately for my belief in happy endings, this last time I heard it; everybody heard it.

We are used to hearing the lowing of her cows because they do it often. Maybe they're hungry or thirsty or randy or anxious because they sense coyotes about. This is how it usually is with the cows. But these were not the sounds of this night. On this night, there were layers.  There were so many different voices that it was like a robe-wearing cow choir.  I take it back; that was a horrible simile. They sounded nothing like a choir. In the attempt not to sound dramatic, I won't say what they really sounded like, but it wasn't a choir (cows, forgive me for even writing that).

At dinner I made a brief comment about the unusual amount of noise coming from the cows, but didn't think much of it until I realized that we were on to dessert and they still hadn't stopped. They were getting louder. The cries were growing, like more cows were joining in. This had never happened before (or at least we were too busy grilling to notice) and soon our curiosity was piqued. However, one thing we learned pretty quickly from our neighbors is that most people move away from the city to be left alone. The few times we've driven up their driveways - all at least 1/4 mile long - we've been met with a few shotguns and a lot of large dogs. I personally learned this by attempting to deliver we-are-new-to-the-neighborhood pies to everyone on our street at Christmas time (which, looking back, shouldn't I have been the one accepting pies?). Clearly we were not about to saunter up her drive and get all up in her business. And then there's the other tacit agreement of country folk: we all buy a lot of land so we can do what we want on that land. We don't bother you, so don't bother us. The problem is, I ain't no country gal yet.