It’s quaint, this love of Jersey cows. It’s the generic affection most of my non-farm colleagues share. They believe that all cows share the same disposition as the Jersey they petted through the lockups as she brainlessly licked the metal bar, the one time we took them to a dairy, because if one is to work for the dairy checkoff, one should at least have visited a dairy farm.
The Jersey cow was the topic of a particularly inane conversation I was having at a casual work dinner. Then, it turned a little more interesting. I should say, it turned on me, and that’s what made it more interesting.
“You actually butcher one of your own cows?” he said, coughing on his beer, clearly aghast. “We actually don’t do the butchering,” I responded, surprised at his vehemence. I smiled into my glass as I brought it to my lips. I decided against telling him that we often actually do the butchering, we just won’t this time.
“I mean, I am not a vegan, and I understand what happens,” he sputtered again, clearly embarrassed. “I just couldn’t do it myself – eating your own animal. That’s a lot to process.” I stopped myself from the joke that was on the tip of my tongue – “It is a lot to process, about 500 pounds worth of beef.”
As I am a good person, I decided against teasing, and I know that I should be an advocate for our industry. I explained, “Our cattle are not our pets. We like them and we work hard to make sure they are healthy, but only rarely does a cattle owner develop a strong affection for their cattle, not individual animals anyway.”
What caused the initial outburst was when I mentioned that we were fattening a calf alongside my daughter’s fair steers for our household to eat. “The first year each of the girls showed their steers,” I said, “it was hard for them to sell their steers because they loved them even though they were ornery and caused them all sorts of trouble in the show ring. But they’ve learned the process. We even joke at the dinner table sometimes that we are eating “Hershey Syrup,” referring to a beloved past 4-H steer.
“Maybe it sounds cruel,” I continued, “but really, these animals don’t exactly encourage affection.” Then it was his turn to be taken aback, thinking of that Jersey cow licking the fence just to hear the chain rattle, as her big brown doe eyes looked up at him. Seeing his skepticism as he saw this scene in his mind’s eye, I backed up. “Beef cattle have a much different temperament from most dairy cows.”
“Like the Angus cattle, you mean?” he asked, proud of his tidbit of knowledge. “Yeah, like Angus cattle.” I said, thinking, ‘I am a long way from Idaho.’ “If they are handled right, they are OK, but most beef cattle are pretty wild. They aren’t like dairy cows, which are around humans and tractors all day. We only handle them a couple of times each year.” Then pulled up my skirt just a touch, showing him a purple and green bruise on my thigh in the shape of a calf's hoof. He said, “Ooh, yeah, I guess you aren’t exaggerating,” never imagining that his sweet Matilda, the Jersey cow from yesteryear, would ever inflict such a thing.
I didn’t bother to explain to him that a few years ago, a pretty Jersey heifer tore Craig’s meniscus with a solid kick to the knee.
Dairy or beef, they are all still cattle.
