TITLE: Ireland Calling 2-28-15
By Lois Lewis
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Did you hear the one about the malcontented cow? His mother said he was born with a chip, a.k.a. cow pie, on his shoulder. So what was his beef?
First off, right out of the stall, he didn’t like his name. He wished his mother had named him something cool, like Patrick, or Michael. But, no! Being a Black Angus, she had to name him, “Steak.” Who does that? He envisioned a choice cut, lying on a dinner plate in a five-star restaurant.
When he announced to his mother that he wanted to change his name, she said, “You’ve never been happy a day in your life!” Fighting back tears she said, “I love your name, ‘Steak.’ I think it sounds like a big, strong stud.” “Hmm-m-m, maybe I should reconsider,” Steak thought.
Second, the music coming from the farmhouse made him sick. Every time he had to listen to, “Happy tails to you, until we meet again,” he turned green, regurgitated his food, and chewed his cud. His dream was to one day travel, “across the Pond,” to the Emerald Isle. He became overjoyed at the thought of hearing tenor music, licking the Blarney Stone, and dancing an Irish jig.
Third, born with green eyes, he was jealous of all the other cows with their beautiful, brown ones. There was one Black Angus named Zorro, who had blue eyes. He was standing aloof in the middle of the field, just like Steak. Neither of them had been invited to join the in-herd.
Fourth, he hated the color of his plain, dark hide. He envied the Holsteins in their sharp, two-toned black and whites. He also wished the farmer would pay more attention to him, like he did the Holsteins, milking them, two to four times a day! All he ever got to do was stand around, looking stupid. As far as he could see, the only thing he had to look forward to was the slaughterhouse.
Fifth, he longed to have a purpose in life, like the Holsteins. He wanted what they had, the ability to produce milk. He imagined what a blessing it would be, to know that every morning children were eating Lucky Charms out of bowls of milk that came from his body. He sighed, imagining ice cream made from his milk. He visualized it smeared on cherubic faces, sticky between plump fingers.
When he tried to talk to his mother about his yearnings, she said, “Son, I feel sorry for you. You will never be satisfied. You’re a malcontent. In your eyes, “the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence,” or Pond.
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