I came across this picture on my continuing quest of the internets.
The caption should read: Kids, you like meat? What do you say to the nice man giving you his meat?
This photo reminds me of Moo. My family bred and traded in American Quarter Horses, in the middle of nowhere. Being raised on a ranch sounds like fun for a little boy, unless you’re a fay little boy who cares more about “his” new name brand vacuum then getting dirty in the hay loft. When my Dad tried to teach me how to rope a steer I spent twenty minutes atop my horse clutching pearls and crying for the poor little cow. There’s a picture of that somewhere.
When I was five, I befriended a rough and tumble cow…named Moo. He was his own cow, going against the herd. Like me. We spent hours together lying in the fields, until the day he was gone. I thought for weeks that he had abandoned me, my cow. When I stopped crying into my pillow I mustered up the strength and nonchalantly asked my Dad what had happen to that cow we had.
“His down in the chest freezer” I was told. All those steaks you’ve been enjoying? That’s him. I started to get dizzy; I’ve been eating my best friend? Oh, God! What kind of monster am I?
For the next several years, it was a war at the dinner table. My parents never knowing why I wouldn’t eat the thick, grilled steak in front of me. On a completely unrelated note, sometimes my friends wonder why I’ve never introduced them to my parents.