Holy Cow

26 COUNTRY COW, CITY COW

On we walked, keeping an ear out for the wolf pack. We were getting tired from walking so many miles, but as soon as we saw the tall buildings of the city on the horizon, it renewed us like a good night’s sleep. We hadn’t said anything for a while. I wanted to lighten the mood, so I said, “‘Moo-cow’? Really?”

“Yeah,” complained Shalom, “and who you calling fat? I have a slow metabolism. I’m husky, I’m big boned…”

“C’mon,” Tom said, “I was in the moment, you can’t blame me, I’m a free bird, I speaks my mind.”

“And what were you doing with the phone when the wolf was coming at you?” Shalom asked. “Were you gonna stop him cold with some Wikipedia Turkey facts, or maybe blind him with your flashlight app?”

We laughed. And walked, and laughed some more to relieve our stress, and when we figured we were about a mile away from the city, we decided to catch some sleep so we could be at the top of our games tomorrow. We took turns keeping sentry. The wolf had spooked us.

In the morning, the plan was to try to reserve airline tickets to India, Israel, and Turkey and then head on out to the airport in disguise. I had memorized the farmer’s credit card numbers-Visa and Amex-so I was pretty sure we could charge the tickets. Once we had tickets, the rest would be easy. We could use the phone, and with Tom’s beak, we could pick out the appropriate keys.

On a small road just outside the city limits, we stopped and got online. It worked like a charm, and even though Tom pecked the wrong key occasionally, we got it done and had three tickets waiting to be picked up at the airport-one to Mumbai, one to Tel Aviv, and one to Istanbul. (Nonstop!:)) It was gonna work! I couldn’t believe it, it was gonna work. We sipped some water from a nearby stream and headed to the concrete jungle.

Tickets were one thing, we could do that without talking. But now we had to figure out a way to get to the airport without being stopped along the way.

Wandering through the actual city, with the asphalt starting to irritate my feet, we spied a man in an apron exit the back of a bar toward a dumpster in the dirty alleyway, dumping what looked like a lot of good food into it, just throwing it away. Like a week’s worth of food.

We approached the dumpster warily. A few rats were already in there fighting over the food. They looked at us with murder in their eyes. I said, “Don’t worry, good rats, it looks like there’s plenty for everyone.”

“Plenty for everyone-ha! What are you doing here, country folk? This is rat turf. You won’t survive three days here. Welcome to the jungle, baby, you’re gonna die!” (See Rose, Axl.) And then the little bastard shot at me and bit me right above the hoof and drew blood. I couldn’t believe it. He laughed. “You get high?” he asked. This kid was nuts. “I got sense, blow, ecstasy-whatevs you want. You just left the farm for the pharmacy.”

My mouth dropped open, nothing to say. He laughed again. “You’ll come looking for me. Remember, first one’s free.” And off he went. He turned back when he was almost gone. “Oh, and piggy,” he sneered, “I left you a special little somethin’ in there. Buon appetito, hicks.”

Now I don’t like to judge any animal, and I knew some rats back at the farm who were good people, smart, industrious, enterprising-family very important to them, solid species. So these rats were weird, and the only conclusion I could draw is that’s what living in a crowded city stripped of nature does to you, can drive you a little crazy. ’Cause these city rats were real a-holes. Real rat finks.

The three of us went dumpster diving. I was shocked at what people throw away. You could feed dozens of animals with this so-called garbage, half-eaten rolls, rice, good greens. None of it made sense, people didn’t make sense, but we were starving so we all just dug in. I was munching on some romaine lettuce when I heard a feeble squeal behind me. It was Shalom. He was frozen, his eyes wide in fear, his lips quivering like a baby’s. What? I asked him. What what? But the cat had his tongue, he could only point. There, on a piece of a poppy-seed roll, was a creamy white substance, kind of gross-looking, throwing off some greasy oily color as it went bad. I’d never seen it before. I sniffed it. It smelled pretty good. I licked it. It tasted pretty good.

SHALOM (aka Jerry)

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

I stopped in mid-lick like somebody was taking my picture. SHALOM was trying to get a word out but he was stuttering terribly.

SHALOM

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMM…

ELSIE

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmwhat?

SHALOM

MMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAA

ELSIE

Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam?

SHALOM

MAYONNAISE! MAYONNAISE! MAYONNAISE!

ELSIE

Okay, it’s mayonnaise, what’s the big whoop?

SHALOM

MAYONNAISE! MAYONNAISE! MAYONNAISE!

ELSIE

Stop screaming!

TOM came fluttering over, and nodding like the coroner on a bad TV show, said under his breath-

TOM

Ah yes, mayonnaise…

SHALOM

MAYONNAISE!

ELSIE

What on earth is going on?

TOM

There is a very popular sandwich among humans, one that’s been popular for decades, one that incorporates mayonnaise as its customary dressing. It’s called a [whispering] BLT. [He pronounced it “blit.”]

ELSIE

A blit?

SHALOM

BLT!

TOM

Well, how to be delicate here?… The L and T stand for lettuce and tomato.

ELSIE

Fine.

SHALOM

NOT FINE!

TOM

And the B stands for…

SHALOM

Don’t say it! Do not say the word that shall not be spoken!

TOM

Bacon?

SHALOM

No, not the B word!

And he started spazzing out, banging his head against the inside of the dumpster, trying to get away from the sandwich. I understood. His B word was my V word. I guess we all have our words. It wasn’t pleasant. Tom had now taken Shalom under his big useless wing and was comforting him, stroking his snout.

TOM

There, there. It’s all very psychological, probably goes back to his mother, that sow, but… um… acon-bay.

SHALOM

What? What did you say?

TOM

Acon-bay, what? Nothing… anyway, acon-bay is like kryptonite to a pig, that and ork-pay.

SHALOM

What? You think I don’t know pig Latin? Pigs created pig Latin! That’s why it’s called PIG LATIN!

ELSIE

That’s what those nasty rats were talking about.

TOM

Relax, I said ork-pay. Anyway, these are certain things that strike to the heart- CRANBERRY SAUCE! CRANBERRY SAUCE! CRANBERRY SAUCE!

Out of nowhere now, TOM was completely losing it, jumping up and down, fluttering madly, his wings kicking up food and gunk everywhere. Especially this gelatinous crimson substance that was so inorganic it still had grooves from sitting in a metal can.

ELSIE

So? Cranberry sauce… so what?

SHALOM

Don’t you mean an-cray erry-bay auce-say?

TOM

So what, you ask me. So what, she asks. So what. I will tell you so what. Every Thanksgiving next to the dead bird, next to the murdered turkey-they set the cranberry sauce. Cranberry sauce is a traitor. Cranberry sauce is the enabler of Thanksgiving. Cranberry sauce is the Benedict Arnold of condiments. Cranberries grow in a bog and they should stay in a bog. What’s a bog?

SHALOM

APPLESAUCE!

ELSIE

Oh shit, here we go again.

Now I had a turkey jumping up and down yelling “Cranberry sauce!” and a pig still fixated on bacon and newly worried that ork-pay ops-chay might be lurking near the apple auce-say-all he needed was a slice of omato-tay to send him squealing over the edge. And I was wondering if I was the last animal on earth to realize that humans eat us all and not only that, they throw most of us out without even eating us, throw us away like worthless garbage. I mean, if I’m gonna be killed for food, at least eat me and poop me out and let me rejoin the circle of nature. Don’t kill me for no reason at all. And that’s when I saw it-a half-eaten hamburger. And that’s when I lost it too. I started mooing like a banshee. The entire country was mad and it was making me mad. I thought, This is what it’s like to be a mad cow.