C. Buddha's Hasty Musings

“Make me one with everything.”

A couple weeks ago a calf was born on my coworker’s mini dairy farm. These mini-farms are prevalent on the more remote parts of this island, often limited to less than a dozen cows. Anyhow, I got around to asking how the calf was doing today and was told it had gotten sick and died. This was of course sad to hear, as this is apparently a fairly rare occurrence in this day and age. My coworker said the last time a calf died on their farm was over fifteen years ago.
He said that the mother was in great distress for a few days, udders swollen with milk and all moany and bereaved. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you,” he said, “that animals do not feel the pain of a child lost.” Shit. I felt like crying, the way he described it. This did not, however, prevent me from asking if they milked the distressed mother to relieve some of the pain (yes), and if so, did they drink that milk (NO! What the fuck kinda freaks do you think we are?).
Maybe I was being a bit insensitive, but hey, I figured that farmers are like salt of the earth type of people, there ain’t no insensitive questions, just stupid city-slicker type ones, right? So I asked why they don’t drink the milk intended for dead baby cows without worrying too much about getting a pitchfork stuck up my ass. And I had guessed right about him not being fazed about it, he simply said, “It’s got too much fat in it.”
So there you go. The reason why you shouldn’t steal mother’s milk from a suckling calf is that you will turn into a cow yourself.