Moo

Well, this one, she caught something—

  something respiratory probably.

  We’re not sure yet.

  You mean like pneumonia?

  A cow can get that?

  Yes, something like that.

  Both Luke and I patted Zora.

  But Zora’s okay, right?

  And Yolanda, right?

  Luke stared into Zora’s big black eyes.

  Cows shouldn’t die.

  Zep put his hand on Luke’s shoulder.

  Zep opened his mouth, closed it

  opened it again.

  The cows at the farm—

  Zep said—

  some we keep for breeding,

  and some for showing, sure,

  but you know where the rest go, right?

  Luke and I shared one last moment of

  mutual innocence.

  No. Where? Luke said.

  Zep looked up at the barn rafters

  and then down at the straw on the floor

  and then he scratched behind one ear

  and finally he said,

  Hamburger.

  WHAAAAT?

  How did we not know this?

  What did we think that whole field of cows

  at the farm was going to do?

  Keep on happily munching grass

  in the rolling green field

  for all the days of their lives?

  And Zora?

  And Yolanda?

  Were they going to become—

  I

  can’t

  say

  it—

  urkkkkkk

  h a m b u r g e r ????

  Noooooooooo.

  SYMPATHY?

  At home that night, we had soup for dinner. Luke eyed his suspiciously.

  What kind of soup is this?

  My mother said, chicken noodle, you know that.

  Is there any hamburger in it?

  Noooo, my mother said. Just chicken and noodles and carrots and celery, like always.

  Do you want hamburger in your chicken noodle soup?

  Luke clapped his hands to his cheeks. No, no, no. No more hamburger.

  My father tapped Luke on the head. What’s up with you tonight? What’s with the sudden aversion to hamburger?

  The cows! Luke said. The poor, innocent cows!

  Ahh. The cows, Dad said.

  I felt queasy. Let’s be vegetarians, I said.

  My parents considered this, nodding, studying the ceiling.

  So, no more steaks? my father said, wincing painfully.

  Or pot roast? my mother said. Or chili? Or tacos?

  In a very small voice, Luke said, But I really like tacos.

  My mother halted her spoon on its route to her mouth. Vegetarian? What about this soup then?

  What about it? asked Luke.

  It’s chicken noodle. Chicken noodle.

  Luke’s spoon clattered into his bowl. From chickens? You mean like real ones?

  I pushed my bowl away. Luke did the same.

  My dad said, And then there’s bacon. You love bacon, Reena.

  Uh-oh.

  What’s wrong with bacon? Luke asked.

  Dad said, You know where bacon comes from.

  Luke thought.

  His face contorted.

  The horror!

  Pigs! he said.

  Paulie!

  Poor, innocent Paulie!

  My parents looked at each other.

  Paulie? they said.

  Who’s that?

  AGITATION

  The next day at Mrs. Falala’s

  Luke and I were

  a g i t a t e d

  bombarding her with

  Q Q Q Q Questions Q Q Q Q

  about Zora.

  What will happen to her?

  Will she die?

  Are you going to eat her?

  Mrs. Falala smiled wickedly.

  Yes, she said, I am going to

  CHOP

  her up and make a

  ZILLION

  HAMBURGERS . . .

  but she stopped talking

  when she saw Luke crying—

  his fists against his eyeballs

  his shoulders heaving

  tears

  running

  down

  his

  face.

  She took Luke’s hand.

  No, she whispered.

  I am not going to chop up Zora

  and eat her.

  I am not going to turn her into

  hamburger.

  I was kidding.

  Really.

  Really.

  Luke tapped his chin.

  What about Paulie?

  Are you going to eat Paulie?

  Oh, Mrs. Falala said.

  Well, now.

  He would make such very good

  BACON . . .

  No, no, no, don’t cry!

  I don’t mean it!

  I’m not going to eat Paulie.

  Promise?

  Promise.

  FACE THE FACTS

  Once we were satisfied that Mrs. Falala was not going to eat Zora and that Zora would be saved for breeding more Belted Galloways, and once we understood that Paulie was a pet—a runt pig to whom Mrs. Falala had become attached—we calmed down.

  And then Zep arrived and we started in on him: What will happen to Yolanda? Will she die? Will she become hamburger? What about the other cows at the farm?

  In Zep’s slow-moving, slow-talking way, he explained that Yolanda, like Zora, would be used for breeding more Belted Galloways, but that the calves born without the white belt of fur around their middles would be sold for beef and most of the steers (the males) would as well.

  People eat meat, Zep said. Face the facts. It’s a hard thing to adjust to, I realize. But I’m going to be a farmer and raise the best beef cows in Maine. I love cows, and I’m going to treat them good as long as I can.

  Luke walked the length of the barn

  and lay down on a hay bale

  and stared up at the sky.

  He didn’t say anything.

  He just lay there

  looking up at that sky.

  And when I was done with chores

  I joined him

  and the two of us

  lay still

  looking up at that sky.

  SHOW STICK

  One day Mrs. Falala handed me

  a

  long

  thin

  lightweight

  metal

  rod

  with

  a

  short

  L-shaped

  molded

  hook

  atoneend.

  Eez show stick, she said. You need for fair. Watch.

  Usually it was Zep who worked with me and Zora, teaching me how to lead her in the ring, my back straight, eyes on the judge, attentive and calm, gently keeping Zora by my side, one hand firmly gripping the halter.

  But on that day, Mrs. Falala held up the show stick and said, Watch.

  She stood in front of Zora and with the hook end of the pole, she gently stroked Zora’s chest and on up her neck, rhythmically and slowly, up and down, down and up.

  You see how calm eez Zora?

  Zora stood perfectly still, lazily blinking, calm, calm. Mrs. Falala moved to Zora’s side and with the show stick, she tapped one of Zora’s hind legs, urging it back a few inches. She reached behind the other leg and coaxed it forward slightly.

  See? Good stance. All gentle. See?

  Mrs. Falala ran the show stick beneath Zora’s belly, back and forth, forth and back, softly, gently.

  See? Calm.

  When Zep arrived, Mrs. Falala handed me the show stick and said, Practice. She headed for the barn, her long braid swinging, and there was Zora

  her tail swishing

  left to right

  right to left

  the braid

  and

  the tail

/>   swish

  swish

  swish

  swish.

  BEAUTY DAY

  Animals needed primping for the fair:

  shampoos

  clipping

  pedicures (hoof-i-cures?)

  I am not kidding!

  Zep declared Beauty Day for Zora and Yolanda.

  We lathered

  we scrubbed

  we rinsed

  we dried them with a blow-dryer.

  I am not kidding!

  We clipped

  we combed

  we brushed.

  We cleaned and polished hooves.

  You’ll have to do it all again at the fair,

  Zep said.

  This is just round one: preparation.

  It made us laugh.

  Beauty Day for the heifers!

  They looked SO good when we were done!

  And then Zora tromped through

  a mud puddle

  and lay down

  and said

  Moo.

  TO THE FAIR

  At five a.m. on the day of the fair, Dad and Mom drove us to Mrs. Falala’s. We were haltering Zora and Yolanda when Zep and Mr. Birch from Birchmere Farm arrived with a cattle van. Inside were six other cows haltered to the rail, blinking lazily.

  Zep led Yolanda up the ramp and into the van and returned for Zora, who balked.

  Talk to her, Zep said to me. Tell her it’s okay.

  Leaning in close, I stroked her head and whispered, Zora, girl, we are going to the fair. All of us. I’ll be there with you.

  Moooooo.

  I took the halter from Zep and tugged at it, and eventually, after a little more snorting and stomping and swinging her head, Zora followed me up the ramp and settled in beside Yolanda.

  My parents looked at me as if I’d just done a triple flip in the air.

  Zep and Mr. Birch locked up the ramp and we returned to our own car, ready to follow them up to the fair, about an hour away.

  Wait! I said. Where is Mrs. Falala? I realized we hadn’t seen her yet that morning. Isn’t she coming?

  We all turned toward the house. No lights on, all dark, all quiet.

  She’s probably still sleeping, Dad said, like most people at this hour. Let her sleep.

  As our car turned to follow the van pulling out of the drive, I noticed that the attic window was open, but I heard no music, no flute.

  On the way to the fair, Luke said, Did anyone actually ask Mrs. Falala if she wanted to go to the fair?

  I hadn’t even thought about it. I just assumed she was going, I said.

  Wouldn’t she want to see Zora in the ring? Luke asked.

  I guess not.

  FAIRGROUNDS

  Rows of cattle vans

  people swarming, old and young

  cotton candy! fried dough! fudge!

  hot dogs! tacos! doughnuts!

  beef cattle and dairy cows

  sheep and chickens

  pigs and rabbits

  moos and baas

  oinks and neighs

  flowers and crafts

  show rings and bleachers

  games and rides

  Ferris Wheel! Bumper Cars!

  Such a world of its own

  this fairsweet fairswarm

  haven.

  MORE PRIMPING

  Rows of cows being groomed:

  sudsing, fluffing, drying,

  combing, spraying, polishing.

  A loudspeaker crackled:

  Thirty minutes, Group One!

  Along the rows the older teens

  quickened their pace.

  Zep and Beat tucked in their shirts

  wiped off their boots

  slipped cow combs in their back pockets

  grabbed their show sticks

  did a final once-over of their heifers

  Yolanda and YoYo

  and off they marched into the ring.

  Instead of sitting in the bleachers, we stood by the arena rail with Mr. Birch, who explained what was happening. This part was for showmanship: the judges were studying both the animals and their handlers, but final judging in this round centered on the handlers. How well were they showing their animals?

  The teens led their animals clockwise around the ring, and then reversed. The judge lined them up, parallel to each other, and walked back and forth, pausing to study the setup of this or that animal, and pausing to question the handlers.

  We overheard some of the questions: How much does she weigh? When was she born?

  I panicked. What if I were asked these questions about Zora? I didn’t know the answers. Sensing my agitation, Mr. Birch reminded me that Zora was a fall heifer and now weighed about eight hundred pounds.

  The judge moved over to Beat, who stood tall and confident by her heifer, YoYo, and then along the line and finally to Zep and Yolanda.

  I had been watching Zep closely, the way he used the show stick to calm Yolanda, the way he adjusted Yolanda’s stance, moving one foot slightly back, the other slightly forward, all while keeping his attention on the judge. He was so at ease and so gentle with Yolanda, and so at ease with the judge, who, after asking Zep several questions, nodded appreciatively before moving on.

  The judge walked up and down the line one more time, studying, until at last he called out the first and second place showmanship winners. We didn’t know them.

  Third place showmanship went to

  oh yes

  it did

  it went

  to

  that redheaded boy

  with the long legs:

  Zep.

  He nodded at the judge.

  He nodded at me.

  SHOWTIME!

  Oh, that Zora!

  She let me halter her

  and lead her to the ring

  so perfectly obedient

  and calm.

  She stood there with me

  as we waited in line

  with eleven other novices

  and their heifers or steers.

  She let me stroke her neck

  with the show stick

  and she let me comb

  the hair along her back.

  When our group was announced

  the entrants in front of us

  moved forward.

  Okay, okay, I can do this.

  Just walk, I told myself.

  Stand straight.

  Smile.

  I was excited.

  I loved everything about it:

  the ring, the sawdust,

  the cows, the handlers,

  the men and women and kids

  on the bleachers and along the fence.

  I was looking for Zep.

  I wanted him to see how well I was doing.

  I wanted him to see how I held the show stick

  and how straight my back was

  and how calm I was and

  how loosely I could hold the halter.

  We were near the entry gate.

  Zora looked into the ring

  and snorted

  and then she

  BOLTED.

  CATCH THAT HEIFER

  Zora had yanked the halter from my

  carelessly loose grip

  and took off

  kicking and bucking

  Moooooo

  Moooooo

  I chased her as she ran past the stalls

  knocking over buckets

  and brooms and rakes

  Moooooo

  Moooooo

  People dodged out of her way

  calling

  Cow on the loose!

  Cow on the loose!

  Beat and Zep and Mr. Birch

  joined in the chase

  Cow on the loose!

  Cow on the loose!

  Moooooo

  Moooooo

  Who knew a cow could run so fast?

  I turned back once to look at the ring:

  the novices and the judge

&
nbsp; and my parents and Luke

  all stood there

  staring

  at

  the

  cow on the loose

  and the chaos erupting

  around and behind

  that

  wild-eyed

  heifer:

  Zora.

  SHOWMANSHIP

  Zora raced down the chicken aisle

  and careened past the rabbit cages,

  nearly landing amid a pen of squealing piglets.

  People leaped out of the way.

  Zep and I finally caught her

  and led her back to the stalls

  where she snatched a clomp of hay

  and chewed defiantly

  and slurped water from the hose

  as if nothing whatever was wrong.

  The novice showmanship competition

  was

  over.

  We had missed it.

  BREED

  Next up was the breed round.

  What do you think? Zep asked me.

  Willing to try Zora again for the breed event?

  My parents and Luke joined us.

  Luke moved up close to Zora

  and placed his small hand on her wide neck.

  Zora, you be good. You know how.

  Mom and Dad looked surprised.

  We had no idea you could do all this, Reena.

  I had a quick glimpse of me in my room

  in our old apartment back in the city

  an inside girl

  and now here I was

  an outside girl

  a

  cow

  girl.

  When the Belted Galloway breed was called

  I led Zora back to the ring

  and we entered

  like civilized partners

  and circled the ring

  without too much contrariness

  and she let me calm her with the show stick

  and she did not drop any plops of anything

  and she did not kick anyone or anything.

  As the judge moved along the row asking questions

  I kept stroking Zora with the show stick

  praying that she would stay calm

  praying that she would not bolt.

  When the judge reached us, he said,

  You’re new at this?

  Yes.

  Are you nervous?

  Yes.

  Well, you don’t show it. That’s good.

  And you did a fine job regaining control

  of your animal earlier. I saw that.

  What’s her name?

  Zora.

  And when was she born?

  Fall of last year.

  And how much does she weigh?

  Eight hundred pounds.

  And who were her parents?