Kat Dancing

Cows suck.

Case in point: My Day.

So it's Sunday, you see, which means that both my parents and my brother are taking some much-deserved time off (bro and I get alternate weekends off). Not so bad, except that the work dog thinks that if Dad gets a day off, *he* gets a day off, and the dog is much more valuable than all three humans combined. And the cows know. Not right away; one can usually bluff them by shouting the dog's name and giving him commands in a loud, confident voice... but sooner or later they catch on. I got them three-quarters of the way into the barnyard this morning, but by then the hindmost cows had figured out there was No Dog, and stopped for a bit of a graze and a natter, and I had to go back out after them on the bike. Bastards.

But I finally rounded them up and locked them in the barnyard, leaving the holding pen gate unlocked while I went in to start milking so the stragglers could get a drink, as per routine; got the setup finished, turned the system on, and was just about to start slapping cups on when I saw the animals in the holding pen turning around and looking behind them with that look of pleased curiousity that anyone who's owned Jersey cattle knows and dreads. It's an ears-forward, head-up, alert look which can mean something as innocuous as "Oh look, a rather large snake has just dropped from the parlour roof and crawled through a few of our brethren's feet and is causing our human to make shrill noises with her mouth because it is trying to hump the milking machine hoses, how interesting," but all too often means something like, "Oh look, those of us whom the human has not yet chased into the holding pen have broken down a line of fence and are now galloping around the corner with their tails in the air, how interesting," as it did, in fact, mean in this instance. They galloped all the way around the barn and shit on everything they could and ate everything they weren't supposed to and then, when I finally caught up with them and tried to bring them back in, crowded around the concrete lagoon and made like they were going to jump in. None actually did, which was a relief, as swimming around in several thousand gallons of liquid shit trying to get a rope on a panicked animal was not in my plans for the day. By this point I had the dog, but he was convinced that Kid, the younger dog, was after his bucket of milk, and kept popping around to the parlour to stand guard, leaving me to chase around a bunch of disrespectful cows who were too busy having the times of their lives to pay much mind to one swearing, shouting, seriously pissed-off human. If cows had mouths shaped for it, I know they'd have been laughing.

And you know what's really amusing? It's when I talk to someone - and this happens pretty often - and some way or another the conversation drifts around to eating habits, and they say, "but - you mean, you're not a vegetarian? But you work with these animals, you know them, you've been around them all your life. How can you bear to eat them?"

And then I laugh great bitter peals of laughter and generally cause the questioner to back away hastily and give me a look that suggests they've only just realized that I am a sadistic madwoman. Poor innocents, raised on Bambi and Disney anthromorphism; how little do you know.

Beef for dinner tonight. Take that, you whores!