My Pet Bull~Calf
(Continued from last post)
The door swung open. Light poured into the room. The silhouette of a tall man stood there. Blood rushed to my head. I jumped two feet, a trapped thief. But it was one of the farmers, so I covered myself by saying, "Oh, hi Mr. Jenklin, what kind of rifle is this?"
"22."
"What's it for?"
"For to kill the beef cattle."
"Kill them?"
"You’re in the slaughterhouse, son."
Then the gun, knives, purple splotches, smell fused together into one bloody image of violent death. Don't know what I said next, but Mr. Jenklin must have decided I needed an education in the facts of terminating life.
“You should watch sometimes. My boys were helping with the slaughter when they were younger than you.”
“They were?”
He pointed to the rectangle. “One of them lines the animal up, the other wraps the chains around its body, we hoist it up with the pulley till its feet are off the ground. Now it can’t move.”
I looked at the purple rectangle.
"I still do the shooting,” he said. “Gotta be a good shot. Stand about 10 feet back, aim at the kill spot—the middle of the brain—and shoot, one bullet—Bang. It’s dead. Can’t miss and let it suffer. Some farmers use a shotgun or a bigger rifle, but if you know what you’re doing, all you need’s a 22.
Bobby…? I thought.
"Then we put the blood pan underneath,” he said kicking a big, tin pan, “take a sharp hunting knife, slit its throat, and let the blood pour out. Lotta blood in these guys; takes 30-40 minutes.”
“30 minutes?”
“Yeah; just like draining oil from a truck. Then we lower it, saw off its head and legs," he said, "and then...” he continued into skinning and butchering, but I no longer heard, his voice blurred off into a red fog because, through every step he described, I saw my pet bull-calf Bobby: chained, shot, hoisted, stabbed, bled, sawn up... Bobby, they’re going to do this to Bobby.
"But…you don't kill calves, do you?"
“Not the girls, they give milk. But the boys—where you think veal comes from? Calves are tender and juicy. But most of the boys are raised as steers. We castrate them first—which is another thing you little cowboys have to learn to do—then we fatten‘em up for a couple of years before slaughter.”
He gave a kindly smile. “Don’t make friends with animals, son.”
He was so matter of fact, innocent really, just trying to help a boy understand normal aspects of farming, in the same unemotional way he’d showed me how to milk cows.
But my mind was spinning with a vertigo-grade shift of perception. For the first time I’d connected the roast beef mommy served us at the table with the living animal it used to be: a being like Bobby. Like Toby. A friend. A conscious, feeling creature, who had loved and trusted someone—someone who casually killed and ate them?
That night my mind burned: they’re going to kill Bobby, some family's going to buy greasy, red slabs of him in a store, fry him and eat him—my brother, like Toby. Would I shoot Toby? Hang him up, slit his throat, saw off his head, skin him, fry him, and eat him? Are we cannibals?
“Here, Toby, come’re boy, atta boy, stand here, that’s right—stop whining now, nothing to worry about, let’s hoist you up here on these chains, that’s my little brother. Hey, stop looking at me like that. Ok—let’s figure out the doggy-kill spot…why are you crying?
BANG.
Good boy—didn’t hurt, did it? No, I’m a good shot. Now let’s slit your throat, Toby, that’s right, ok, and let all your hot, red blood drain out before I saw your head off—jeez Toby, lotta blood for a 70-pound dog, drain away now, so I can hack you up in time for dinner. Don’t worry, Toby, I won’t drink your blood, I’m not a vampire. Yes, yes, I know, you won’t be able to see Bobby today, but…hey: that’s life; dog-chops are full of protein and I’m a growing boy.”
I had a broken-heart attack. Could not eat meat for days.
"You eat what's put in front of you, young man,” said my dad, “Do you know how much that beef cost?"
It made no sense. But, though it took a long time, eventually something shifted in my 10-year-old brain, because the whole world, mommy and daddy, the farmers, the priests—everyone ate meat. And they were honourable people.
I gave in.
~ John