Cathy in the Wright

Carving Out an Attitude

The Chairman’s slaughter-blogging is in contrast with her young life when the lass thought of farm animals as living out picture-book lives to the natural end of days.

Reality intruded, in several steps.

No. 1, chickens. On my uncle’s farm, the natural end of days for poultry occurred a few hours before Sunday dinner. That’s when my cousin, Lucille, was assigned to fetch a couple of hens from the flock hunting and pecking around the yard—like white leghorn typists—and wring their necks. I explained this to The [Young] Chairman, who had thought that wring was a misspelled noun that meant a telephone sound, finger jewelry or a bathtub watermark. She was aghast to discover that wring was the correct spelling of a verb that described how chickens arrived in a state like that of the horseman who frightened Ichabod Crane and how these headless hens fluttered about until they bled out.

No. 2, cattle. The Chairman became a vegetarian—for about 60 seconds—after learning how steers were butchered. She relented, quickly, upon savoring the taste of hamburger vs. that of Brussels sprouts.

No. 3, pigs. Another of my cousins, Ness, was like St. Francis with the animals. During a thunderstorm, the cows would moo frantically until he walked into the barn. His presence alone would settle them. After moving to his own farm, Ness raised two Hampshire hogs that were like pets—smart pets. They learned how to unlatch the gate to their pen and escape to rub against visitors, begging to have their ears scratched. They’d also flee to the end of the driveway and wait patiently for the school bus to bring home playmates. When it came time to butcher the hogs, neither Ness nor his brother could do the deed. The Chairman asked, “Then you kept them as pets?” “Oh no, Cathy,” Ness replied, “we found a neighbor who was not so emotionally involved.”

The Chairman’s changed attitude became apparent the day her younger sister called frantically to say that our Cairn Terrier, Sandy, had proudly dropped at her feet a bloody, quivering juvenile rabbit caught in the back yard. “It’s dying,” sister pleaded, to which The Chairman replied, “What do you want me to do … bring home a bitty baby bunny body bag?” When English majors alliterate about the misfortune of Thumper’s kinfolk, hardness of heart toward all edible animals cannot be far distant.

Posted by Professor at August 19, 2006 11:57 AM