Posted by hairy bat phd on July 26, 2006, at 15:08:50
I entered this in a short story contest and won:
THE MAD COW
The farmer awoke and was immediately aware of the painful tingling in his hands that were tied behind his back. The room smelled of manure and cigar smoke. Across the room she stood- a black and white Holstein, heifer # 29 to be exact. She was up on her hind legs, leaning against the desk, leering at the farmer and chomping on a lit cigar. The farmer had questions, to be sure. For example, he wondered how had the cow managed to light a cigar without opposable thumbs? But mainly he wanted to know what she wanted. He asked the cow directly. The cow scowled, and spit some cud across the room, landing inches from the farmer. She then waddled toward the farmer on her hind legs, leaned back and began squirting milk from all four teats, adjusting the arc so the streams hit the farmer square in the face. The farmer knew this was meant to be degrading, yet he hungrily tried to take in as much of the white liquid as possible. He hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for hours, and he knew he’d need his strength. Although he didn’t know what the cow wanted, he was sure of one thing- this was one mad cow.The cow finally left the den, giving the farmer an opportunity to try to free himself. His hands and legs tied, he awkwardly made his way toward the desk and managed to knock a letter opener from the desk top to the floor. As he worked, he thought about the cow, and wondered what had lead to her discontent. Had he crossed this cow in some way? He had 44 Holsteins, and each had a unique pattern of spots. Like fingerprints no two patterns were alike. But he couldn’t differentiate the cows individually by their markings. He only knew he was dealing with cow #29 by the numbered tag in her ear. And that number did not ring a bell.
After several hours he managed to free himself. He rose and set the letter opener on the desk. The idea occurred to him that it might be better to hold on to it to use as a weapon, but decided against it. A letter opener wasn’t going to do much good against a 1,200 pound cow, especially one this mad.
He tried the door and was relieved to find it unlocked. He opened it slowly and peered out into the dark hallway. No sign of the cow. He tiptoed to the kitchen and eyed the knife holder on the counter, pulling out a large butcher knife.
As he turned to leave, he noticed his hands were shaking. He thought for a moment this might not be such a good idea. He could easily slip out the back door and get help from the authorities, but he quickly decided against it. It was a matter of pride. If word got out that he let one of his cows get the best of him, he would never be able to live it down. Dairy farmers were a catty bunch.He exited the kitchen and crept toward the living room where he thought he heard a noise. He peered around the corner and spotted the cow. She was seated on the couch with her back to him, a half-emptied bottle of 12 year old scotch next to her on the end table. On the other side of the couch the farmer’s antique victrola played softly. It was one thing to raid his stash of Cubans and high end liquor. But the thought of the cows dirty hooves on his vintage 78 collection was too much to bear, and hardened his resolve.
He focused on the cow, who was strangely still, her head hanging down with her shoulders slumped. He slowly made his way toward the front of the couch, stopping a few feet away from the cow. When she looked up the farmer knew he was no longer dealing with a mad cow. Her facial expression was that of a sad cow, a very sad cow. She hung her head back down, and the farmer set down the knife on the coffee table, taking a seat in the chair opposite the cow. The farmer knew the cow was no longer a threat. And to a certain extent the farmer understood the cow’s sadness. He himself had spent many a late night on the same couch, drinking the same Scotch, listening to the same Billie Holiday records, ruminating.
The cow’s sadness was an existential sadness, beyond reprieve from bovine Prozac. The cow knew she was an exceptional cow, possibly soaring higher than any cow ever had. But with her gifts came self awareness. And the realization that no matter what, at the end of the day- even an extraordinary day such as this- she would still be a cow. A cow with hooves without opposable thumbs, four stomachs, and a brain the size of a lemon (or perhaps a grapefruit, in the case of cow #29). She now accepted this, and all that her life would be- an endless cycle of rumination, defecation, insemination, gestation and lactation. And eventually the unavoidable: hamburgerfication.
The record ended, but continued to spin, the needle producing a rhythmic scratching. The cow again looked up at the farmer. She took a deep breath and let out an audible sigh. She began to rise from the couch and the farmer rose with her, gently reaching out for her elbow to steady her as she swayed. The cow brushed his hand away and was able to steady herself on her hind legs. She then dropped down on all fours and headed for the door. She stopped and turned her gaze toward the farmer. He realized she wanted him to open it for her. The farmer complied, and he watched the cow slowly return to the herd as the sun set in the distance.
poster:hairy bat phd
thread:670790
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20060722/msgs/670790.html