In a neighboring town I glimpsed a lone cow in a chute back of a meat processing plant. She was staring fixedly at something unidentified off to my right, heedless of my passing. Only one outcome was left for her. 

A “meat processing plant” is a slaughter house. She was in her last hours. Was she afraid? Did she have any inkling of what came next? What was it that had captured her attention? She was so still, staring. What kind of conscience lights the bovine brain? Can anyone know? When had she last been given any food or water? It didn’t matter, did it. She was worth no further investment by anyone. She was meat now, just not dead yet.

In this nation under God, condemned humans can choose whether to be shot, poisoned or electrocuted. How do we kill what we butcher?

There’s been very little beef in my present. There’s none in my future. Adios, Whataburger. I can’t get her out of my head. This jolly season bearing down on us like a toy train driven by Goofy: I”m thinking of celebrating it with some fasting and meditation. Bean soup. Piece of fruit.

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