As I sit here in the brave solitude of my lonely office (believe I've used that line before, but, hey, it's hard to be completely original after nearly six year), I am looking out my window at a lot of money. Well, it's not money, per se, but if I sell them, it will produce money—especially for my boys.
The “them” in question, natch, are some cows, and I understand that they could fetch a pretty good price these days. Butchering them, then, would give us all a “cut” of the profits, if you know what I mean.
My flourishing ranch is comprised of, ahem, seven cows (three cow-calfs and an orphan), so we're not looking at gazillions (don't ever use that word in my Grammar class, please) of dollars. In fact, I'll be lucky if I sell only three of them. Even I know you don't sell the mommas.
Let's see now: Millie has Chuck, and he is destined for our freezer; Patches' calf, Ebony, is actually a heifer, so she has been spared the bullet; and Deli's Khazi is headed out of here soon, in exchange for a different yearling. The fourth calf, Abby, will end up on someone's plate this fall.
Apart from possibly being dead meat (pun intended), there really is no life like a cow's life, in some ways They eat, drink, and laze around to their heart's content, at no charge to them. Almost like teenage sons. Even if they escape, they just stand around and eat some more until their frazzled owner (that would be me), rounds them up—to eat and sleep some more.
Or, as some wag might put it, to slop, slurp, and sleep.
I must say, however, that there are some rubs with being a cow, perhaps enough to make me glad I am higher up on the food chain. One, the same, steady diet of grass, more grass, and most grass, is a little too boring for me. Second, the whole manure thing would be a little stinky and uncomfortable, not to mention rude. (“Aw, Patches, knock it off; you just pooped on my alfalfa pie!”)
They say that contented milk comes from contented cows. That makes me wonder if that's one of the reasons why so many people are lactose-intolerant. I have had (and almost felt) some cows that weren't all that docile out here. A quick head-butt (no, Maurice, that has nothing to do with being a butthead) from an agitated cow can prove costly and dangerous. If you are facing said agitated cow, you might just think where it could crunch you. Ouch.
As mentioned earlier, I have always named my cows. To me, that is so much easier than referring to to the “black one over there,” or the “black and white one with a bag.” However, unlike dogs and cats, they don't respond to their assigned names. Hay and “hey” generally work best.
My simple point is that I have no problem enjoying a steak that used to be Poopsy or Agnes. At that stage, it's just meat—nothing more, nothing less.
In fact, just the other night, I asked the humans around my dinner table if we were eating Red (Patches' first calf). No, I was informed, it was the nameless steer we had to buy last year when Millie's calf “caught” (hope you rancher guys are impressed with my grasp of ranching lingo) so we couldn't butcher her.
Before naming them, I used to try to tell them to “moooove,” but they didn't get my witty, human humour. They don't even wince at stupid jokes like that; probably too busy eating, drinking, and sleeping.
I've got kids who are raising chickens and turkeys and cows. They see the value in cows, more than the other investments: You basically leave cows to themselves, give them access to water, and—voila!-- the cheque is in the mail. Chickens and turkeys, on the other hand, need constant care, especially at the brooding stage. And if you do chicken and turkey tractors, the work load is considerably greater.
I've just looked up again and my four-footed investments have shifted once again. That must mean my money is on the move, doesn't it? I'm wondering if they're going out for supper, likely over to the other side of the fence, you know, where the grass is always greener. They need to be careful so they don't mess with their supper.
Or, for that matter, mess on their supper.
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