Thoughts Negligible

The heifer had placed herself in the far of the field, alone. I watched her as she paced circles, laid down, and got up again. She would soon have her calf. I walked out with a handful of hay to throw in front of her while reciting to myself a poem I was trying to memorize— “O I have been dilatory and dumb, I should have made my way straight to you long ago ...” I left and watched her from afar—lie down, get back up, lie down, get back up. After about an hour of this ritual she had birthed her first calf. Twenty minutes later the calf was pushing itself into air to test its newfound legs. It’s funny, even though there’s been no threat to these domesticated cattle for over 5000 years, their calves still feel the need to be walking after a few short minutes of air-breathing. What’s our excuse?

“I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you...”

As the calf gained confidence in his still-shaky legs he began to go after his mother’s milk. He would launch forward, looking for sustenance, and his mother would turn her body so he could not reach her teat. She would not allow him to eat—“These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution...” A first-time mother often doesn’t know how to take care of her calf. If the calf doesn’t suck within a short time of birth, it quickly loses strength as the protein-rich and antibody-rich colostrum wastes in the mother’s bag. The cow had lovingly cleaned him off, but would not let the calf eat, like the beauty-show moms who doll their daughters up and feed them celery while reminding them they’ll be fat and ugly if they eat real food.

But cows have no aesthetics. I sang songs to them yesterday and they just stared at me dumbly with meatball eyes. I played the guitar and sang of how dumb they were. My lyrics turned evangelistic as I called for the cows—young and old—to turn from their wicked ways, their sloth and gluttony and stupidity. If only St. Francis had been here! He would have converted all eight of them, my mighty herd, along with the birds, maybe my cat Muffin too (I’ve always wished she’d get saved because she’s getting old and she always looks so unpleasant). Why would they not turn? Why did they not fall, repentantly, to their knobby knees? Perhaps my tone wasn’t urgent enough, my chords not dark and persistent enough? I suppose a G, C, and D were bad choices—too typical, over-used, too churchy, too cliche—but, alas, my imagination was dry. Perhaps their hearts are too cold? Maybe my presentation wasn’t flashy enough? No strobe lights. No amps. No stage. Just my wooden chair and Martin, a cup of water for my parched throat, and my cell phone turned to vibrate as not to disturb the service. That’s not very culturally relevant, even for cows. The sun was our only light, which was warm enough for me, but they see that every day; the grass, our carpet, but they eat from there, it’s nothing new to them; the barbed-wire fence was our sanctuary walls (which I, mistakenly, sat outside of), but it is too constricting, too threatening. How could they relax in these conditions? They seemed relaxed to me though, masticating their cud with apathetic, unworried eyes. They were unconcerned with the Hellfire that awaits them.

I was about to shake the dust from my feet when the calves became interested in my message, for they congregated near the fence, gazing at me in song. You’ve got to get them young! Teach them in the ways of God young so they won’t forget when they’re older, so they’ll return later.

All of these cows are single mothers. Their bull is introduced to them once—WHAM! BAM! Thank you ma’am!—then he’s gone. Another dead-beat. They raise these kids on their own. Maybe I need a Minister to Single Mothers? A Minister to Fatherless Calves? How much are they running these days?

All these single mothers became a nuisance as they knowingly sniffed around the wobbly calf. I could hear them all insisting this young mother didn’t know what she was doing. She was clearly intimidated as she shuffled back a little to allow the other three mothers a closer look. Even the little calves got in on the action. The new calf would pathetically wobble into the bags of the other mothers who would disdainfully push it away with their heads, knocking it around in a dizzy haze.

I held the baby in my arms as my mother drove the eighty yards to the barn. He rested his head lazily on my arms. Even an Old Testament temple priest would have been moved to compassion. I smiled as he turned his head towards his back legs seeming as comfortable as on the ground. This calf was heavy and didn’t help any as I had lifted his dead weight into the back of the mule (the vehicle, not the animal). We tried to get the mother to follow, but she just stayed behind, helpless as we kidnapped her still-wet calf. So we took it back and laid it down.

After a bit longer she allowed the calf to suck and it began to hop around its mother with the joy of the living, the joy I often forget. Such a stupid animal with joy and enthusiasm I envied. Such a stupid animal that taught me so many lessons today. If only I had page enough to share more with you.