My first official post on this page! This is monumental for this technologically challenged farmgirl. In a scene from "Men Who Stare at Goats," a man walks past a row of computers and the computers blow up sequentially as he passes by. Computers don't blow up in my presence, but I have developed a habit of standing far away from cash registers and the like just to ensure that they work properly. I get a lot of odd glances from the employees. I digress...
My first blog ever debuted on http://whatthehellisrosedoingnow. It is a story called 1-800-dead-cow. It is a true story about a difficult Spring on our farm, and the beauty of people who are kind and who work in jobs that we would like to forget about. Please read Rose's posts too. She is quite amazing and funny!
Here is the original story:
Spring is busting out all over and my friend Mimi lays dead. A black 2000lb mass in the field, nature trying to absorb her. So still, and I know that she is gone by the weight in my chest. Soul, shedding carcass-gone weightless leaving her heavy black burden all goo and juice.
I cry as if a bit of my soul has been torn away.
The scientist in me calculates. I have roughly 24 hours in this weather before she starts falling to pieces - not in the Patsy Cline way - much much more messy. I envision our 3 dogs rolling in the morbidity and then the work of copious amounts of bathing. What is the solution: burial, hauling, God forbid cutting her up into manageable pieces and carting her bag by bag to the dump?
Barely composed, ruse paper thin, I call the farmer neighbor. He's a real farmer - big equipment - doesn't cry when cows die, doesn't name them, keeps perspective. Might I pay him to bury a cow? He reminds me of all the slate on our land and politely tells me that the job is too big.
I call the state lab. Sure, they will take her but I will need to pay for an autopsy. This on top of the expense of the vet who just put her down. I call another farmer friend who agrees to haul her, but only if all other options fail. In other words, "Your emergency cannot be my emergency right now."
Twenty two hours until fragmentation, loss of integrity. It is Sunday night at 5:00 pm. There are no others to call until tomorrow. Besides, tears squeeze out all resolve. Sleep is elusive, held captive by worry and the prednisone the doc gave me only hours before Mimi died. Turned out the poison ivy on my forehead was really shingles.
The sun finally rose, a relief from attempted sleep. I walk to the pasture to tend the living, and pray for a Lazarus moment. She lay unmoved, a massive black pock like the entrance to a cave amidst a field of tufty soft grass. Ugh! T minus 8 hours until the bloating and peeling. Morning clings to my boots as I head back to our house.
I call numbers from the phone book and ask questions. The answers are all "Sorry, and can't, and wish I could help."
One suggests a number called 1-800 DEAD COW. Really? A solution to the 2000 lb dilemma?
I call. A woman answers and I inform her of the dead COW and ask how much for removal and especially how soon? She transfers me to another woman who transfers me to the man who hauls. Each person hears that I have a dead cow. Each person is kind. They tell me they will be at my farm in 2 hours, but that I have to get Mimi's body moved from the pasture to the gravel pad at my barn.
My farmer neighbor agrees to move her body. He drives his massive tractor to her, hooks a chain to one leg and lifts her effortlessly. As he drives to the gravel, I pray that she holds. I pray that I hold, keep the shameful tears pressed back.
She lays now on gravel. Tractor trails lead the farmer home. In a few hours Mimi's 8 year old dead self will be gone.
With a Ziploc bag in hand and a $250 check for COW removal, I head out the door to place payment near the remains of Mimi. The phone rings and I scurry back into the house. It's a woman from 1-800-DEAD-COW. She starts out by apologizing but not apologizing. Sort of like a "Whatever gave you the impression that you could hire us to remove a dead cow? I'm sorry that you are not savvy enough to realize that we are not affiliated with the cow industry."
My response is simply, "What? I spoke to 3 people. I wasn't trying to trick you. I have a dead cow plain and simple. Your number is 1-800-DEAD-COW! What is it that you do?" The angry employee asked questions like, "Why do you have cows if you can't transport them?", and "Why don't you just let the cow decompose naturally on your land?" At this point I started weeping, and I may have snorted into the phone. The woman on the other side countered with an unemotional encyclopedia answer regarding mad cow disease and laws and your cow problem is not my problem.
I called the state lab for suggestions. Uncle Al's towing was a possibility. Uncle Al hauled dead things and had a bone to pick with 1-800-DEAD-COW. My farm was too far outside his work zone and he earnestly wanted to help me just to get back at the dead cow folks. Uncle Al suggested that I call the dump to see if they would even take Mimi's carcass.
I called. The number in the phone book was wrong. Another exercise in futility it seemed. The lady who answered sounded like Aunt Bea and I anticipated more Southern charm, but no solutions. She put me on hold, but when she answered, she had answers. She had contacted the dump herself and yes they would take the body! She also told me about a good man who hauled all of the road kill in Culpeper.
It was as if I had gotten a wish from Glenda the good witch. Clicking my muck boots together, I wanted to chant, "There's no place like the dump for a rotting carcass."
I still shake my head in disbelief at her kindness- sheer mercy really. I was so sick from shingles and also heart warped by Mimi's death and her impending decomposition. A town employee saving the day-a miracle indeed.
The good man she recommended did not disappoint. He drove to our farm that night and hauled Mimi away. I watched him load her mass carefully, then drive off. I stood, the dusty cloud from his tires settling over me.
Only 8 days later, I called that good man again to remove another still mass lying heavy in the pasture. Our oldest cow, Mama died at 25. Her head tucked inward as if she were peacefully asleep.
A month later, my farmer friend bought the last two cows. The pasture is empty now, echoing the way a house's wall's do when the last box is put on the moving truck. Eerie still, lonely-scarred, and deeper than empty. Who do I hire to haul that away?
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