Dying Breed

The barn at a dairy farm in town burnt down this morning. I heard the sirens go through while I was at work and my husband, Peter, called me to tell me it wasn't us, in case people were talking. Tonight we learned that, although it happened mid morning, 160 cows died in the fire. Maybe they were inside because it was so hot out today. I put my cows in their barn too this morning, so they would not have to suffer in the hot sun.

One thing about cows is, if they panic, they want to go back to the barn. If they're in a panic, they won't want to leave the barn. Horses are the same way, I believe. Even if the barn is on fire, they don't want to leave. Another farm a little ways away from here had a barn fire last fall, and in the end, the poor farmer shot his cows at the last minute so they wouldn't have to burn to death. After this happened, I felt very worried about having to shoot cows; but Peter suggested that, should we be so unfortunate, we could make a big hole in the side of the barn with the tractor. This seemed to soothe me at the time.

"Shit," said Peter, "I would die in the fire before I let cows burn to death."

"Shut up," I said. "What kind of sense does that make. We couldn't rebuild without you."

This seemed much worse than the thought of shooting cows.

I can think of many things I like about dairy farming. Seeing the cows eating grass or lazing contentedly in the pasture. Drinking cream off the top of the milk jug. The moment at the end of the evening when every udder is empty and every mouth is full and every bed is clean. The satisfaction of a hard day's work completed.

But for Peter, farming really seems like a life time of endless toil. A job well done can be acknowledged, but quick enough another one will take its place. I have heard him curse a cow for a minor infraction in a way that would make a sailor blush and seen him beat a heifer with a metal pipe so badly I worried he would damage her spine. The end of chores for the day is only a reminder that the whole routine must be completed again in 12 hours. Farming is in many ways a thankless job, and Peter seems to know each one by name.

There is a piece of pride, I think, in keeping what your great great grandparents began going, in carring on the farm when so many have folded. But to say that you would die saving the animals that you curse body and soul on a daily basis ... I don't know what to think about that. Sounds like Stockholm Syndrome to me.

"I guess you can't say what you can do unless you were there," he conceded after a while. "But it sucks that there's only 2 farms left in town."