Work Cattle for a Week, and You’ll Understand Why We Eat Them

2020 05 15 Friday, early afternoon

Work cattle for a week, and you’ll understand why we eat them.

I was breathing like bellows in a forge, heaving air in and out of my lungs as deeply and evenly as possible. My work boots felt like they weighed eleven pounds apiece, and I could feel every ounce as I flung my feet forward with each stride. The brush was elbow-high after three days of light rain followed by four of bright spring sun. A dense tangle of fescue, dandelion, orchard, and timothy grass made every step a struggle. Running at full tilt in heavy boots isn’t advisable; doing so through thick undergrowth where you can’t see the ground in front of you is just plain stupid.

This was nothing like running a trail or jogging a five-kilometer course. I couldn’t find my rhythm, couldn’t settle into the meditative cadence of the run. Long tangles of grass snatched at my toes and dragged against my Carhartt pants. Everything below the waist was damp with morning dew that never burned off. Everything above was drenched in sweat. At a balmy sixty-four degrees, the day was far from hot, but there was no shade in that overgrown pasture. I was running as hard as I ever had, while my target loped ahead of me at a leisurely trot.

I’ve listened to Vietnam vets talk about the jungle—the high grass, how they couldn’t tell if it was six or twelve feet deep when they jumped into it from a helicopter. They spoke of how it blocked the wind, obscured sightlines, and dragged at everything, including their very breath. As I ran, chasing my quarry down, I suddenly understood a piece of what they suffered through.

The toe of my left boot caught on something with a solid CLANK, and I went down. A flash of reflected sky on water sent a bolt of panic through my adrenaline-soaked brain. Childhood stories of men drowning in wells painted vivid pictures in my mind’s eye as I tumbled into the light-consuming grass. The wind rushed out of me as I slammed into the half-buried curve of a metal pipe. Gasping like a cracked intake manifold, I rolled over to inspect my feet.

I’d tripped over a culvert ring guarding an irrigation valve. Wheezing out curses, I crawled forward to check for damage. The last thing I wanted was to dig up and repair a one-foot diameter pipe. The reflected sky I glimpsed was from the shallow water table here, which had seeped into the open pipe. Thankfully, someone had thought to cap the flange ring with an expanded metal grid—keeping cattle, and stray farmhands, from breaking a leg. Staring at it, the Vietnam analogy returned. At least it wasn’t a Bouncing Betty.

A bellowing “MOOOOoooooOOO” sounded in the distance. Whatever ground I’d gained on my target was lost. I could hear her putting distance between us as my shin throbbed.

Staggering to my feet, I peered up the low hill to see the rump of a Jersey cow disappearing over the rise. Spend one day working cattle, and you will understand why we eat them. Miss 9812 had figured out that portions of the poly-line electrified rope grounded out on the high grass. She’d also discovered that if she could get her head under it, she could slip past with only a mild zap or two. Apparently, she’d shared this trick with three of her friends because I saw several more damned critters join her as she leisurely walked down the south side of the hill.

Gazing over the high grass waving in the gentle breeze, I was reminded of my days at sea. It inspired a brief review of basic fleet tactics. Should I classify myself as a U-boat or a destroyer escort in my efforts to corral these mischievous beasts? The way I was breathing, I may as well have been a Liberty Ship with a marginally functioning .50 cal machine gun and a bent propeller.

I settled on an oblique angle of attack. 9812 kept swiveling her ears, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to check my position. She could see me. I could see her. We both knew how this would end. Moving southeast, I fought through the grass, aiming to reach the fence before she did. She, on the other hand, glided through it like a manatee through kelp. Just as I reached the high-tension fence and grabbed the reel where the poly-line terminated, she doubled back, gathering her friends. With quick footwork and some loud shouting, I managed to wrangle three of them back into their designated area—while 9812 escaped again.

Once more, I gave chase. I hadn’t had to pass a physical fitness test in years, and my lack of cardio was painfully obvious. I was in decent shape for my age, but alas, it wasn’t enough. The damned cow outpaced me again as I followed her along the poly-line to the north end of the fence. Thankfully, the other half of my battle group arrived on the scene to help intercept the target. With a single motion, he unhooked his end of the temporary fence and flipped it over her head. Trained to respect the electric wire, she stopped short, then trotted back to the herd, loudly complaining the whole way.

With my target finally back in her grid coordinate, I doubled over, hands on my knees, struggling for breath. God only knows how troops do this with eighty-pound packs on their backs for days on end. After a minute, I finally caught my breath and trudged out of the tall grass into the portion of the field they’d cropped down to tufts.

Ducking under the wire, I was immediately greeted by number fifty-one and two-two-four. They might as well have been domesticated dogs the way they nudged me and pulled at my shirt with their lips. I obliged them with thorough chin scratches, nearly toppling over as they pressed into my hands.

Their playful affection was almost enough to make me forget the last thirty minutes of murderous cardio.

Almost.

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K.C. Aud has made a career of being lucky and has managed to find something positive in nearly every poor decision he’s ever made, even if it was only a new perspective on how not to do something.
Enlisting in the U.S. Coast Guard in 2010 he became an Operations Specialist (radio and navigation) and did his first tour in Georgia guarding submarines from drunk fishermen. In 2014, tired of the heat and the bugs he transferred to a 210-foot medium endurance cutter in Washington state. The cutter then regularly deployed to the hot and buggy west coast of Central America to hunt down drug runners. Aboard USCGC Active he traveled 94,194 miles and personally handled enough cocaine to keep a small country high for a decade. Somewhere in there, he learned to write, if not spell.

Three years later, daunted by the prospect of spending the rest of his career in a windowless command center, he separated from active duty. After 13 different jobs ranging from beer brewer to dairy farmhand, to machinist, to Navy civilian contractor, he reenlisted in 2020 as a Coast Guard reservist, changing rates to Maritime Law Enforcement Specialist. When not helping the Navy assets in the Puget Sound troubleshoot radios, he’s on drill in Seattle doing water cop stuff and or flailing away at his keyboard. Though married and now a father, he misses the mission.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.