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Emily
the Cow's Wartime Surrender by Andy Smith I spent the first Saturday of the war standing ankle-deep in shit. The MetroWest Daily News had asked me to cover a Hindu healing ceremony at the Peace Abbey in a small farm town. The Abbey is a ranch that's been converted into a school, barnyard, and non-denominational place of worship. Over three acres of land rest monuments to Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Martin Luther King, and John Lennon. Every turn is a celebration of pacifism, veganism, environmentalism, etceteraism. It was a difficult week for the Peace Abbey and its directors, the Randa family. They'd led 16 war protesters to a local military research center, where they were arrested for attempting to block the entrance. But the real bad news came the following day when Emily the Cow was diagnosed with uterine cancer. In 1996, Emily escaped death by jumping the fence of a slaughterhouse and fleeing into the woods. For a biblical 40 days, she roamed the Earth, aided by an underground railroad of sympathizers who intentionally misdirected her would-be captors. When Emily was caught on Day 40, Christmas Eve, she had lost so much weight that she was worthless to the slaughterhouse. The Peace Abbey purchased her for $1 and nursed her back to health. Seven years later, Emily was once again looking death in the eye. A veterinarian convinced the Randas that chemotherapy could extend Emily's life. She would be the first cow to receive such treatment, but they decided it was worth a shot. Emily the Cow was penciled in for a Wednesday appointment. But first there would be a healing ceremony, which, as mentioned, took place on the first Saturday of the war in a pasture full of shit. A dozen new-age hippies circled around Emily, still radiating in the afterglow of their civil disobedience arrests. A Hindu priest draped elegant blankets and scarves over Emily, and chanted quietly while sprinkling her with rice and flower petals. He rubbed ointments on Emily's belly, where it had been shaved during the exploratory procedure that found the cancer. There was incense, jellies, fruits, and lots of concerned facial expressions. As ridiculous as it all was, I can't remember the last time I felt as peaceful as I did at the Peace Abbey. The priest's words were the only sound in the pasture. It was the closest thing I'd experienced to silence in months. I'd been having a little trouble sleeping. The "decapitation strike" explosions that started the war got in my head. I heard them relentlessly. I don't know why. I'd seen gruesome depictions of war in movies and T. V., and I'd read about the battlefield's deathly stench. But I'd never thought about how noisy war must be. The sheer volume of a bomb falling in your neighborhood has to be terrifying. In bed I would lay awake, my imagination obsessing over the sound of cruise missiles striking. Even without the bombs, it was already shaping up to be a very noisy war. There were jerky anti-war types shouting their empty slogans, whining about Bush, and brainlessly demanding a utopia that will never exist. Jerky hawks giving condescending reminders that those quaint little dissenters make America what it is. Droning on about "bringing democracy to the region," as if it were as simple as "just add water." Moron talk-show hosts engaging moron callers, chanting, "U-S-A!," and enjoying it all way too much. Blathering anchors generating an endless stream of overused meaningless words and phrases. Targets of opportunity, embedded reporter, freedom fries, the plan, the dossier, the coalition of the willing, the hearts and minds. I never want to hear these words again. By Day Three, the war had produced more babbling than any war in history. And everyone was certain their babble was the right babble. I was exhausted. Exhausted by the battle in my brain to figure out where I stood. Exhausted by the inescapable noise. But there was nothing to hear out in that pasture. After 20 minutes of the spiritual nonsense, Emily grew restless. Mrs. Randa tried to keep her stationary for the priest, but Emily seemed intent on wandering. Wandering toward me. As she got closer, I tried to hold my ground without looking frightened or disgusted. But I'd never been so close to a cow in my life. And suddenly this big cow face was no more than five feet from mine. The priest didn't miss a beat, proceeding through his rituals as Emily and I stared each other dead in the eye. She looked pathetic. Snot dripped from her nose and mucus lined her eyes. As I took in her cow breath, I was overcome by a profound and soothing sense of kinship with Emily. She had approached me with such conviction, as if she was seeking me out. Perhaps she understood the absurdity of both our situations. Perhaps she recognized we were both stuck in worlds we'd long since given up trying to understand. Lunatics surrounded us, and circumstances were spinning out of control. The best we could do was survive. But I knew Emily would not. There was death in those eyes. I think she wanted me to know she would soon be escaping the slings and arrows of life. I think she wanted me to know she was going someplace better. And someday I would too. |