Sunday, April 12, 2009

Love Means Not Turning Your Friend Into Hamburger

This weekend I met a little girl who stole my heart. I'm not just being cute; she really was little. Only three-and-a-half feet tall, actually. Her black hair, while long and soft, was unfortunately matted with mud. But she did have big, dark eyes, and a shy, demure quality that was very endearing. And I'm sure she would have smelled better, only her feet were covered in a mix of mud, grass and feces. She does wear jewelry, though, like any other tween-aged female her age. Only hers is a tag. Clipped through her ear.

Just a number to some, #30 is special to me. Unlike all the other cows inside the fence, #30 came right up to me and nuzzled my hand, when my husband and I stopped by today to see the new "investment opportunity" he has been telling me about for two weeks. While the other cows stared, she followed me around. While the other cows shoved each other in a free for all to reach the food, she walked in a civil fashion. And while the other cows rudely turned to mount each other or relieve themselves in our presence, #30 conducted herself like a real lady. Her only lacking manners seemed to be a perpetually runny nose.

After a walk around the grounds to inspect the cows, and wax poetic about life as ranchers, we turned around to find all the cows had followed us. But not #30. There she stood alone, back by the fence...as if to say, "I'm not like those other heffers. I don't want to follow the herd. I will be here waiting for you whenever you return. So please...don't make me into hamburger."

Oh, crap. Now not only do I have to think of something drastic to save her from a terrible fate, but I may have to stop eating beef. I mean, it could be her mother. How am I going to explain that?

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