Pensivity in the Pasture
I was sitting in my friends’ home in the middle of Nirvana –to me, anyway. I love the SF Bay area. It’s my home away from home. It wasn’t quite 8AM as I sat in the kitchen sipping my coffee. I thought I heard mooing. My friends live in a development in the midst of beautiful rolling hills, hiking trails and reservoirs. The scenery here is pinch-me-awake gorgeous. I went jogging the other day and within mere minutes I passed cattle grazing in the lush pastures less than a mile from the house. Now I was sitting in the kitchen hearing sounds of distress.
I needed to see what was happening. I got in the car and drove down the road in the direction of the sound. I saw what I suspect was a modernized cattle drive. I’d say about 100 animals — large ones, small ones, male and female, I assume — being guided down the hillsides to a penned area. The cattle drivers were in golf cart-like vehicles — two of them. No one was being prodded or beaten, just encouraged to walk down the hill to the pen below. The cattle didn’t struggle, but they didn’t make their way quietly. Their moos could be heard a mile away.
I pulled the car to the side of the road, cut the engine, and got out to take photos and videos and take in the scene. Near the pen were two horse trucks from which two or three horses and a couple of border collies emerged. The horses were mounted by farm hands. I didn’t see what service they provided. The dogs, too, didn’t seem to have a purpose at the moment. Although I don’t begrudge a horse’s status in our culture and anyone who knows me knows I never met a dog I didn’t like, I couldn’t help but ponder why the cows and steers and bulls and calves were treated sub-par while the equines and canines roamed freely and were recipients of the farmhands’ affection. Why is there a difference?
The cattle were all put into a holding pen. The space was much more condensed than the hundreds of acres of rolling pastures they grazed just an hour earlier but they weren’t crushed by one another. Some of the animals seemed to get back to the business of grazing, unbothered. Others stood and voiced their opinion of this less than acceptable situation. I contemplated what they might be feeling — fear, annoyance, stress. I watched for a while before returning home.
Later that day I drove by the spot again and I saw that the cattle were released from the small holding pen and were now in a larger grazing area near the roadside, but still away from the hilly pasture I had seen them on the day before. I felt a bit of relief. Maybe they were just making the rounds from pasture to pasture. There were plenty of them to graze in. Still, I knew what their fate was and I feared this was their last time to enjoy open space and clean air and probably the last time to taste grass for the rest of their lives. I watched and kept the tears at bay. The beautiful scenery I loved to jog through speckled with beautiful bovines was merely a waiting room for the slaughterhouse. I was tempted to approach the farmers and inquire of the process I was witnessing. On one hand, I didn’t want to hear what they’d have to say. On the other hand, I feared they’d get defensive or angry or that I would get defensive and angry and I wasn’t feeling up for a confrontation. I was too sad to be witnessing something I couldn’t stop.
I never heard more mooing from the kitchen while sipping coffee. I never heard trucks come to take the cattle elsewhere and I never saw if the animals were simply led to a neighboring pasture for the time being. All I know is that they’re not where I last saw them, grazing on the verdant hills and I don’t know if I want to jog past the pasture anymore. As beautiful as it appears to some eyes, in mine, the beauty has been sullied. I can’t help but picture their ghosts roaming the hillside only to be eventually succeeded by another herd some day. The vicious cycle continues.
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