On this sunny, blue-skied autumn day, I take my usual walk. Whichever way I end up finally going on these country roads, it begins with an initial flat stretch on the gravel, then heading more or less south, down the steep hill toward the old barn, storage building, and silo at the bottom of the hill on the east side. Before that I pass by the big, fenced pasture, with its rambling shape and outcrops of shelter trees – last year it was scruffy and bushy, but now it is cropped, green and neat from grazing. There is a herd of beautiful, black Angus cows and calves that I stop to look at and talk to each day.
But today I am stunned. There is a haunting and eerie silence hanging over the empty pasture. The cows are gone. I think perhaps they have been taken to the barn for some reason, but down there, again I see nothing. I hear nothing. They are gone. The place is hollow. There is nothing: only grief.
Early in the spring, a pair of men had begun sinking fence posts and stringing wire, after mowing the scrub down in the large field. It had once been pasture for dairy cows, but not for several years, and now it looked like it would be so again. Some days after the men started, the animals arrived, but were kept in the barn and a small field adjoining it, while the men continued their work. They were Angus: beautiful black creatures, who shied away and headed to the barn when I stopped by fence. One day the farmer, Bill, was there and we stopped to talk. It was a small herd, he said, and some were calving; previously they had been in an isolated field and were not used to people, and so were shy of newcomers. One day K and I helped him corral one who had gotten through the gate and was on a roam – by spreading out and staking ourselves in three of four directions, we were able to direct her back through the gate and into the yard.
Spring days moved into summer, and the cows and their calves now roamed the big field that had been fenced for them. It was lovely and a wonder to see them. They would move around in a clump, foraging, with the little black calves followed their mothers. Usually, for some part of the day at least – when the sun was very hot, or when it was raining – they would gather under a big, gnarly tree. I am not sure what kind it is, never having gone close, but it looked like a multi-trunk apple tree gone rogue, although I don’t know if there is such a possibility. Without fail it would cheer me, as I trudged down the hill, to see them appearing happy and at peace – if I do not anthropomorphize too much.
At first, if they were feeding near the road when I came by, they looked and then would move away quickly. I would greet them, asking “how’s it going?” and would comment on the quality of the day, the state of the fields and so on. I might compliment them on their good looks. A regular little Doctor Dolittle I was, chatting to them. After a couple of weeks, the cows stopped moving away, usually just raising their heads and taking a moment to look at me, then going back to their grass.
One week K and I were dog-sitting Lucy, a black, medium-sized, gentle hound mix (you could not have a more companionable dog) and I would take her down the hill on a long leash for my walks. To my surprise, the cows (with calves following) came right up to the fence – and not only that, but followed me along the fence line, down the hill. I thought I saw consternation – there was something to be sure, a concern. A couple of them bawled at me, quite obviously objecting to the situation. I soon realized that to them, black Lucy looked like one of their calves, and so they were concerned that I was taking her away. Of course, I tried to reassure them.
And so, through the summer we went: me walking, and the Angus cattle feeding and wandering about – sometimes close to the road, other times back on the hill or nearly out of sight behind the pond, and sometimes lying happily under the tree. At one point in the summer, I thought that the herd grew a bit smaller. I wondered if some had been sold off: maybe male calves, if Bill’s business plan is about breeding stock. But then I thought no more of it.
Down the hill I would continue on these walks, arriving at Jim’s place on the paved road. There, usually, a greeting committee – “the boys,” two Great Dane pups in a pen, and “the ladies” (they were older), two Newfoundlands on a landing on other side of the house – sang to me. The Danes were pro forma about it, just a couple of curious barks, but the Newfies threw their hearts into the job and made a racket. This occurred day after day, even though I explained to the ladies: “Hey! Same guy, different day. You know me.” Jim’s driveway-and-barn-dwelling chickens clucked and eyed me with some suspicion, but overall they were not too worried. His rescue horses in the paddock raised their heads to watch me as I greeted them, and then went back to their grazing.
When the third horse arrived a couple of years ago, he had a bad case of what is called “stall vice,” in this case a stereotypical head swaying motion, reminiscent of the repetitive motions of a child with severe autism. I read and found that it’s a result of too much time stuck unattended in a stall, with the inevitable isolation, boredom, sometimes fear and anxiety, lack of exercise, hunger and bad nutrition. I, of course, let the fellow know that he no longer had to do that, but if it felt comforting for the short term, I said, then by all means carry on. At first the other two horses would have nothing to do with him, but that changed over time, and now they are a trio. The stall vice, under Jim’s kind care and the companionship of the other two horses, the chickens and the dogs, eventually went away. He is a kind man, that Jim.
I carried on, my curved and polished walking stick in hand, and the pepper spray on my belt. The stick is general purpose, but mainly for warding off The Proud Boys or their minions should they pull up in their battered Dodge pickup on particularly remote section of Smith Road. The spray is for the German Shepherd down at Warner Road, who has demonstrated every intention of ripping off my arms and maybe my face, if he were to get off his lead. Once, when the owner was walking him, he reared up full height bellowing and snarling, pulling her nearly off balance. It was all she could do to hold onto him. After that unnerving event, I ordered the spray. At the time, the woman, my neighbour, gave me attitude and acted as though it was my fault. It must have been that I was the problem for being out walking, not her insane dog.
Obviously, I am not loving this neighbour as myself, although I want to try. She no doubt has problems of her own, say, for example, a bad husband. But in fact I confess that my esteem for humanity has been in rapid decline since the pandemic. They are part of the same species that would not wear masks during Covid, took part in the Trucker Convoy in Ottawa, or who thought the deep state was somehow involved in paedophilic and cannibalistic activities at the Comet Ping Pong Pizzeria in D. C. And these terrible wars this year, our refusal to do what is needed about climate change, especially after the most sweltering summer ever recorded, and the second coming of the most reprehensible presidential candidate of all time, have not helped my outlook. Add that having to pick up Twisted Tea and Bud Light cans on the roadside, tossed out of car windows by drinking drivers – well, it makes me like the animals better.
Sometimes I would see a turtle on the road. If it was a big one, I just guarded the crossing to make sure that a car did not hit it. If it was a small one, I picked it up and moved it to the other side. When you pick up the big snappers, they do this sudden very powerful shudder that can scare the hell out of you and make you drop them. Better just to stand guard. We have a huge snapper that crosses the road by the house and then our yard a couple of times a season. Primordial, bigger than a platter, probably as old as I am. No doubt remembers the sixties, just like I do. We have a pond in front of us, on the other side of the road, and then another back of us in the field, bordering the cow pasture. This big one travels between the two of them – I assume he is visiting relatives, or is looking for an amorous encounter, which is admirable at his age. Although K notes that it could be a female, perhaps looking for a place to lay eggs. I hadn’t thought of that, and have not asked the snapper about its preferred pronouns.
I’ve seen other creatures: deer all the time, turkeys, often, and a heron now-and-then, which surprises me – there just doesn’t seem to be enough water and creatures in it to support the big bird. I’ve encountered porcupines and possums and a fox or two, and woodchucks – you have to love their roly-poly running style. I came upon a dead, not-fully-grown coyote with its guts ripped out – how did that happen? The turkey vultures got it and after a day or two there was nothing but bones and some bits of fur.
I’ve seen a lynx. New York State has decreed that this is impossible as they have pronounced the lynx extinct in the state. But I know what I saw: not a bobcat, they are different. Anyway, more tolerant Vermont has declared that they are not extinct at all and since we are only a couple of miles from the border, it is possible one slipped across in the dark, sans passport, away from the eyes of officials. Vermont is more libertarian in any case. (A classmate back in business school, a senior banker from New Hampshire, declared that Vermont was socialist, the first and only time I’d heard that. But then, frankly – and I hate to say this of a person responsible for other people’s money – he was a bit of an idiot. He also said that Canada was “communistic.”)
There have been bear sightings at both ends of our road, although I have not seen one, and I’m just as glad. They scare me, even though I am from Northern Ontario and therefore am expected to be more nonchalant about bears. I’ve seen a water snake in the stream – you have to love the way they swim, all slinky like that. The other day I saw a garter snake on the road, not unusual in the fall particularly, enjoying a warm-up on the asphalt on a sunny day. I plunked the end of my stick down in front of its nose, to get its attention, and gave it a verbal warning about the danger of traffic, along encouragement to get off the road. It raised its head and flicked its tongue, decided I was nothing to worry about and then ignored me, paying no attention to my admonition. I was gladdened to see on my return journey that there was no snake still on the road, flattened or otherwise. All theses sentient creatures: all of them are trying to live, trying to eat and not to be eaten.
My walks past the Angus cows and their growing calves continued through August. And then one day, late in the month, when I tramped down the hill, they were all gone.
We human beings are not to be trusted. It is true that we can be kind, that we will take care of you and bring you food and water, and we will shield you from your other enemies if we are able. But too often we do this for our own purposes. In the case of pretty Angus cattle, we may keep you well over a season, then, without warning we will transport you to the auction barn, and then sell you off, as likely as not, to the slaughterhouse, then to the butcher, the grocery store, and then to somebody’s plate. Then we will eat you.
Humans eat anything and everything. Someone reminded me once – when I was not eating much meat and my red cell count dropped a bit low – that we were carnivores, as though that explained everything. In any case, that is not really correct; more accurately speaking, we are omnivores. If you are a fish, we will eat not just you, but also your gooey eggs, smack our lips and call it caviar. If you are a goose, we will perform gavage on you until you develop steatotic liver disease, and then we will take that liver and make paté of it and spread it on crackers or toast. If you are squid, we’ll eat your arms and tentacles as well as your body – usually battered, of course. You name it; we’ll dine on it and invent a sexy name for it while we are at it, such as “sushi.” Of course, we can’t entirely help it; like every creature, we would and must eat. It is an inevitable part of the great catastrophe of living – or is it the calamity? – as I believe Jack Kerouac termed it, although I’m having trouble finding where he did say so.
And yet. Do we have to be so unkind, nay, so hubristic and cruel about it, with our factory farms, our industrial chicken farms, our crowded, filthy, and terrifying tractor-trailer transporters, and our grisly abattoirs?
We could, after all, be vegetarian. Maybe, with cows, we could just “steal her butter and cheese,” as it says in the musical Oklahoma, not to mention stealing eggs from chickens. This would be a fair exchange for shelter and food and for playing country music for them on an old radio in a snow-proof barn. Or we could, as indigenous people once did, show courage and kill by hand if we have to, and afterwards pay homage to the creature in a ceremony and give thanks to the Animal Master. Not that I do this of course: I am no better.
People will say, “well, they are just animals.” True, I say, and so are we. They are not so different, although certainly not so wily as we are. If you prick them, do they not bleed? Do these animals not experience fear and pain? Do they not experience contentment and what looks like happiness? Do they not experience attachment to both their kin, and in some cases to us? Are they not sentient?
Ask Fido who gazes at you like a lover, or that mouser of yours that lives behind the living room sofa and pokes her head out when you come into the room.
No, no, I say to the cattle in the field. Do not trust us. Look at how our eyes are placed. We have the eyes of predators. It is part of our nature.
And then one day, the cows were back – or at least most of them. I thought some were missing. I speculated that the ones who were back were unsold at an auction. Where had they been? Surely they had not been in the barn – I would have heard them, would I not, even with my dodgy right ear? Bill was not around to ask, and as a reclusive neighbour myself, I don’t know where he lives, to go pepper him with questions. But K went out with the binoculars and counted: twenty-three, which is about right.
So it had to be that I was mistaken or misinterpreting. It is extremely rare for me to be wrong, naturally, and I am reluctant to admit such, but there you have it. I can’t argue with K’s count. I do feel happiness at seeing them again, of course, but the experience has affected me; now that happiness is tinged with some foreknowledge. After all, I know the ultimate outcome, and their temporary absence brought that fully to consciousness. Bill is not keeping them as a hobby, unlike the wealthy gentleman farmer up over the hill who keeps his sleek race-horses, or Jim with his rescues.
So for now, I go on, as we all do. I walk by and I stop to watch them. If they are close by, I talk to them, ask them how things are. They raise their heads and look at me with not-unintelligent eyes. They have decided I am okay, if a bit nutty.
What is there to be said about all of this? Given that we are all in the same predicament, there can be no reason for these wars we wage, and no reason to wreck the climate. There is no reason to elect a nincompoop as president or throw Bud Light cans out your truck window. But it is the case we must eat and there are so many of us – so many human beings. It is a calamity, no doubt. Given that, there is only one possible stance. Not indifference, but rather as the Buddhists would prescribe, to practice loving kindness, if not vegetarianism. We are all in this life together: human beings, the other sentient creatures, even the plants, the land and the waters.
It the face of it all, there really is only one possible living stance: radical compassion, for all of us. I can’t think of anything else. And so for now, for today, I walk, and the sight of my Angus cattle gives me great joy.
I’ll take that. The rest I can’t fix.
