tight boxes

I have an old Jersey cow named Bea. The real spelling of her name is “Bee” - something to do with a bee that landed on her nose after she was born, but I think Bea more suiting so when we bought her as a young heifer I made a small modification to the name. She’s an old fashioned Jersey, the kind they used to have. It’s hard to find a Jersey like her now. So many of them are so delicate of bone and more narrow of jaw. They have teats now that are bred to fit into milking machines, not hands or the mouths of calves. Bea’s not like that. She deep bodied and wide mouthed, a big, hefty Jersey, low to the ground but wide across. She’s meant to get fat on grasses alone and it shows. Ain’t no benefactor of rich, high fat creamy milk like Bea. 

Bea’s my favourite cow in all the land. She’s fifteen now and still having calves, still leading the herd, still watching us. She does that watching part more than anything. When I go to the herd to bring them their minerals or salts, or wheelbarrow gifts of apples, she’s the first to run to me. The others come on notice of her, but she comes because she understands what’s happening long before the other cows clue in. She comes to me for scratches and pets, moving her body to the next spot she feels needs attention. When I lift a fence line or make my next step in my morning chore routine, she knows if it’s because I’m giving her new pasture or just fixing a latch. She watches, all the time, she watches.

This trait of hers is endearing mostly. When it’s not, is on harvest days. We harvest two to three beef animals a year to put into our freezers amongst the other nourishment of our farm. The days we harvest an animal always start off solemn and heavy. My heart vacillates between anxiousness and dread before a harvest. I know that after, while I stand under the sky with my husband, skinning and gutting and wondering in amazement over the beautiful gift of nourishment below our fingertips, my feelings will have morphed to ones of wonder and the deepest, bone saturating gratitude. But the before part, the part where we go to the field and shoot one of our animals is not one we feel excited about. And I wonder, every time, how Bea knows why we’re there. Every time, she knows.

It starts with her looking at us as she always does. There will be nothing different about us then. Usually, as I cross over the fence she comes to me right away for the aforementioned scratches. But she won’t on this day. She, instead, raises her head and snaps her whole body to attention. Then, she starts galloping wildly from one end of the pasture to the other. She’ll make loops like that, around and around, galloping. Some of the other cows think this is a great game and join in. The older animals usually watch her for a bit, befuddled and curious, but just go back to eating. A few younger steers or heifers will often keep pace with her for awhile before getting bored and deciding to go chew on some grass. Bea continues to sound her bovine alarm, never once taking her eyes off us. 

It’s not a good feeling. I don’t like that somewhere in that bovine I adore, there’s the knowledge that we bring something worth fearing. I can’t say “death” because animals don’t seem to spend much time fearing death. I’m hesitant to put any human emotion on an animal, because I don’t think they experience this world like we do. And I don’t want them to. There’s no elevation to Bea’s worth by equating her emotions or pleasures to that of a human. She can stand alone as a beautiful, regal cow with mysterious desires and drivers. That’s more honest and more interesting to me. I’d rather observe animals as they are and learn from them than figure I’ve got them pegged. They’re not dumb humans, their intelligence and emotional lives are a fascinating expression of their creature selves.

Still… the inclination I have is to tell myself that Bea doesn’t know we’re coming to kill one of her herd mates. Her galloping about is the equivalent of that first white-tailed deer that understands threat and flashes her fellow deer with the white underside of her tail as she bounds away. The deer get it. They follow in haste. Poor Bea, her domesticated brethren don’t carry her instincts. They haven’t been around for the fifteen years she has. They don’t understand what she’s trying to tell them. But I do. And I don’t want my favourite cow to see me as a threat. So the reel o’ comfort begins: she understands there’s going to be a big bang, but she doesn’t understand death or endings. She’s curious when a herd mate dies but she doesn’t mourn. Her heart doesn’t ache for a friend. She understands pieces but doesn’t really know this part of it or that part of it and surely she doesn’t know we have anything at all to do with the blood in the grass and she doesn’t even know what blood is.

I have all sorts of little stories to pad my heart. They run in my mind without effort. The moment a feeling I don’t like - maybe it’s sadness or I’m hurt by the words or actions of another or I’m feeling insecure in my understanding of someone I love, a tiny little cassette starts playing in my brain. I hardly notice when the play button is pressed. But, there it is if I listen closely. This reel that plays, padding those feelings with justifications and reasoning. Almost all of it, utter bullshit.

I spent the day with some extended family members the other day. Our wider families are such a fascinating collective to watch this dynamic at play. Everyone thinks they know everyone else. At least, they know what they need to know of them to get by. We’re connected by blood and history, often by obligation, but so many of those