The following is an excerpt from my novel Cinnamon: a dairy cow's path (and her farmer's) to freedom

Ainsley knocked on the door of the ramshackle house. There was no answer.

"Looks like she's not there," shrugged Ainsley. "I forgot our bag of treats. I'm going back to the pickup."

The largest cow I have ever seen, stuck her head over the fence and mooed softly at me. I moved closer to the wooden fence and put my hand out to stroke her furry nose. We were about the same height. Her hair was longer than any of my cows. Its glossy sheen reflected the sun. 

I had heard that most cows would naturally have horns. Milking cows were dehorned at birth. I never did it – even though I did see it on my parent's farm. When I was young, I once saw a farmhand take a saw and cut the horns off a spindly legged heifer. I felt very sad and ran home to ask Papa why they did it. He replied that they did it because it always had been done.

Someone had forgotten to dehorn this cow when she was a calf – or maybe they thought it would be a novelty to have a cow with horns.

She turned sideways to the fence besides the fence. From her large brown eyes to the back of her hump midway down her spine she was a dusty gray. She was white in the middle with a dusting of gray on the front of her two front legs and on the upper part of her muscular back legs. Then she was gray again toward her rump. On closer inspection, I noticed that the gray on her back flanks looked like the smatterings of an impressionistic painting and her white coloring underneath came through in the star-like pattern of snowflakes.

"I see you found Beatrice, or maybe she found you," said a smiling woman with high cheekbones who came up behind me. She had short blunt cut sandy brown hair. The ends of her hair brushed the collar of her red and black checked flannel shirt. There was something arresting about her. She had the radiant look of someone who was at peace with herself.

"You must be Helga," I said, smiling back.

"Yes," replied Helga. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you when you came in, but I was in the back feeding the pigs."

I smiled when she said 'pigs.'  There were pigs here.

"I can't wait to meet them," I commented.

Beatrice was sniffing my palm. She seemed to be expecting something. 

My partner went back to the pickup, I said. "We left our bag of treats in the truck."

"Treats are good," said Helga. "Let's get in my truck to go into the sanctuary. Then we'll swing around to get your partner. We'll visit the cows first and then the pigs."

"Sounds good," I replied.

Beatrice snorted as I pulled my hand away.

"Beatrice is a Brahman cow," Helga told me as she heaved the gearshift of her green pickup. The truck was a model that dated back probably two decades. Old-style locks jutted from metal doors.

"She's larger than most. Everybody thinks that Brahman cows are enormous but the females, on average, are just the same size as the Holstein. Obviously, she's a little bigger than the rest," pointed out Helga.

We picked up Ainsley in our silver pickup parked on the shoulder of the road in front of Helga's house. Introductions were made. Helga explained to Ainsley that we had been talking about Beatrice, the Brahman cow, who greeted me.

Helga motioned with her arm and pointed to Beatrice. The cow had turned away from the fence and was trotting toward us.

"She's very affectionate," remarked Helga. I just fed her, so it's more than treats that she wants.

"Wait a minute," said Ainsley, "I brought something for her."

Ainsley reached into a large vinyl bag, rummaged around, and produced a burlap bag full of sliced apples.

I was squished in the middle of the front seat in the cab.

"Go ahead," said Ainsley, drawing back so I could reach my arm out the window.

Beatrice's lips were cool and moist against my flat hand as she nibbled on the apple slices.

Two months after Mama had died, I was still moping around the house. The farm no longer interested me. I couldn't go into the pasture, and I couldn't open my mail. The mail was mostly bills anyway.

I had told Ainsley about the cow sanctuary months ago when Candace had first told me about it. Ainsley said nothing at the time – I took this as a comment about Candace. But apparently Ainsley had enough of my moping around after Mama's passing and insisted that we take a day trip to the cow sanctuary.

I agreed, although inwardly I groaned and thought, Not more cows.

I had been curious about the sanctuary – but mostly I came because Ainsley suggested it. Ainsley had given up on job hunting and seemed happier.

Now that we were here, I was glad we had come. It was only a two-hour drive south of our farm, but it felt like a different world. There was a feeling of peace at the sanctuary, and it evoked another emotion in me that I couldn't yet identify. I just knew that it felt expansive. I had the feeling of being larger than myself – and of being at peace in the world.

 Plus, I really liked Helga.

"Most people think of bulls when they hear about Brahman cattle. Normally, I don't like to use the word 'cattle' because it sounds so impersonal and it's almost as bad as 'livestock.' These cows aren't livestock. None should be. The cows who live here have their own personalities.  They're as unique as people. They're like pets to me, but -- really -- they're more than that.  They're beings."

I nodded along with Ainsley.

A silence hung in the air indicating that it was our turn to talk. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, but Helga broke it.

"So, tell me what brought you here?"

She stopped talking. Awkwardness hung in the air. There was so much that I could tell her, that it had all started with Cinnamon spying on me – or how I had nursed Spice back to health only to realize that she would be sent to slaughter in a few years. I couldn't tell Helga that I thought Cinnamon was trying to talk to me. Helga might think I was crazy. I had just met her and didn't want her to think I was irrational. I could tell Helga that I was here because nothing made sense any more since my Mama had passed. But if I told Helga that, I might break down crying and I didn't know her well enough to risk looking like a mess. There were many things, I could say about why we were here. But I knew with a sinking sensation that at the bottom of things, I was a traditional dairy farmer. I was the enemy.

"Oh, we just needed a change of scenery," answered Ainsley breezily. "Plus, we're going vegan, and we heard about what you are doing, so here we are. I was wondering, Beatrice is so unusual – where did she come from?"

I looked at Ainsley lovingly -- and gratefully.

"There's a Hindu cow sanctuary about an hour away that's going out of business. The owner is retiring so he sent his cows to live at several different sanctuaries. It was hard to break up the herd but at least they are safe, and Beatrice seems to like it here."

"I've heard that Hindus worship cows," I said.

Yes, many Hindus do worship cows. They consider cows the sacred caregiver. As I see it, the cow is the sacred feminine. Strict Hindus don't eat meat or animal products. They are essentially vegans even if they don't call it that. Of course, strict Hindus also oppose the rights of women – which doesn't make sense."

Ainsley and I both nodded.

"But they are right when it comes to the sacredness of cows. You've heard the saying 'Holy Cow!' – well that goes back to the cattle cults in Northern Africa. You may have heard of the goddess Hathor in ancient Egypt. She was often represented as a cow and there is evidence that she was worshipped for nearly 3,000 years."

There was silence in the cab as Helga navigated the ruts of the pasture. As we lurched in our seats, I looked out the window. There were clumps of cows here and there, standing together. Some stood close – flicking each other with their tails -- the way that Cinnamon and Spice did.

There were two mama cows standing side by side with their calves at the far end of the field. "The mother cows and their calves like to keep their distance," said Helga as she followed my gaze. "I guess they feel like they are in their own little world."

"Are there just female cows here or do you have male cows, too?" interjected Ainsley.

Helga laughed. It was the kind of laugh that filled the air with the sound of chimes. It was the kind of laugh that was genuine. Even her laughter was serene. She seemed to love what she did. I tried to imagine her doing something else but couldn't.

"We call male cows bulls. Sometimes they are called steers – but that sounds too much like a steakhouse. We don't have bulls yet, but we might have some soon. I got a call from an older farmer who wants to give me two mama cows and their male calves – who, of course, will grow into bulls. Before I take them, I have to build a fence in the pasture to keep the bulls and the cows separate."

Achoo. I sneezed.

"I don't have a cold," I said after I had wiped my nose on a tissue that Ainsley magically presented to me. "But sometimes I have allergies. But I have noticed in the past month since I've given up dairy that my allergies are much better."

"Dairy does tend to make people have excess mucus – not to mention what the hormones do. There are natural hormones in dairy – lactating mothers produce estrogen – plus most cows have unnatural hormones injected into them to make them grow bigger and give more milk.

I'm surprised that more people haven't wised up. Eating dairy isn't only supporting the industry that kills cows. It hurts people too."

I nodded.

"Sometimes, the tree mold is bad here," continued Helga. "We'll stay away from the forest – but you can see it at the back of the pasture."

I turned my head and looked in the direction where she was pointing.

"But I don't see a fence in front of the trees," I said.

"That's because the forest is part of the pasture," responded Helga. "The cows like to go back there and sit in the shade – especially when we have a hot day."

I kept looking.

"I see several shadows that look like cows!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, that's probably Robin and Cindy. Those are the ones who like to sit under the trees closest to the clearing. Unlike most Holsteins – which are black and white – Robin and Cindy are mostly black. That's why they looked like shadows to you."

Helga certainly knew her cows.

"It sounds like all of the cows in your herd have names," remarked Ainsley.

"Of course, they do," responded Helga. If they don't have names when they come here, I give them names and I tell them that they are safe here and are going to live out their natural life spans. A cow can live from fifteen to twenty years. I've even heard of some that are older than that when they die."

Helga sounded like she was reassuring herself that they could live longer. I imagined that she had certain special cows that she was especially fond of. A cow was a big pet to get attached to and fifteen to twenty years – I'd heard that some cows even live longer when they're allowed to -- was a long time.

I smiled reassuringly. I didn't have a chance to speak since Helga kept on speaking after her pause.

"We've been here long enough that several cows have died of old age. And the other cows, particularly the ones those close to the deceased, mourn their dead like people do. I've seen cows shed tears, bellow, and search for their loved ones. When I worked on a dairy farm, I saw cows grieve for their calves for days. Boy calves on dairy farms are taken away and turned into veal. The mamas are also separated from their female calves. The mama cows have to go right back to milking, and their babies are brought up to be milked right after they get pregnant for the first time. It's a barbaric system. One day I couldn't do it anymore, so I quit. And here I am."

I said nothing. I was feeling very guilty. First, I was wondering how many cows I had sent away to an early demise. We had always kept the cows until they were about five – because the slaughterhouses paid more for the younger ones. This meant that I had sent away more than I could count who were at least ten years away from the age they would die of natural causes -- if they had been allowed to live.

 Of course, this practice had started before I was an adult and in charge. Mama and Papa had sent the cows away after three milking cycles – just as their parents had done. At the thought of my parents who had died recently, I swallowed a sob.

A wave a guilt washed over me again. Despite that I was hurting, I had taken many lives.  Despite that I wanted things to be different, I still felt guilty. I felt guilty because I was guilty. I had been complicit in many deaths – I had personally made the decision and signed the contracts for the cows to be sent away – for a price. I had blood on my hands.

As the sole living representative of generations of dairy farmers, I was even more complicit.

For a moment as this guilt enveloped me, I felt like I was drowning. Like a drowning person, I felt helpless. What was I going to do!? I felt so guilty that I could've screamed. I could have demanded that we leave the sanctuary – I could have defended the actions of Papa and Mama and their parents before them. I could've spent the ride home defending my right to the land and to continue to do things as they always had been done.

Instead, I decided to come clean. There was something about this place that demanded honesty and I knew I would feel better if I told the truth.

I saw that Ainsley was going to say something and come to my rescue again.

This was noble but unnecessary. I could come to my own rescue.

"I should tell you," I confessed to Helga, "that I'm a dairy farmer – a conventional dairy farmer. I ran – run – a farm that's been in my family for generations."

I watched Helga's eyes narrow as I talked. I knew she would be suspicious of me. After all, I was the enemy. But I kept talking. I told her about my cows Cinnamon and her friend Spice – how I suspected that Cinnamon was trying to talk to me and how I realized after nursing Spice back to health that I had only saved her to send her to slaughter in a few years. I didn't care anymore if she thought that I was crazy. I told her that Mama had died—that Papa had died a few years ago, that I was an only child, and that nothing made sense anymore. When I told Helga this, I didn't break down. I only suppressed a few sobs.

When I told Helga that I was unhappy, she looked at me very sadly.

She gave me a few moments to collect myself and then started asking me some very specific questions. I told her that my farm was a small one – twenty acres.

"How many cows do you have?" she asked.

"Forty-five," I said, "oh, I mean thirty."

Fifteen cows had been sent away, but I tended not to think about it. Actually, I had tried to block the knowledge of this out of my mind. But the cows were old enough to be sent away to be slaughtered, and I had needed the money, so they went. Even though the slaughterhouse sent the trucks at the dead of night, it had still happened.

I felt very guilty.

When Helga asked me if the land had been passed down to me and if it was paid for free and clear, I nodded.

"There's no reason to feel bad about the past," said Helga sadly.

"We all have regrets. But if you just feel bad about what's been done, then you're stuck in those feelings, and you can't move forward."

Helga smiled at me sadly. I took a breath and tried to smile back, but I found myself tearing up.

Helga took a breath with me. We sat in silence.

Ainsley was silent too.

"You can do this," said Helga after a few moments of silence had passed. "You can change things. You can make life better for the cows and for yourself. It will be easier than you think it will be."

I nodded.

The only thing I didn't tell her was that Mama had left me some money. It wasn't a lot. But my parents had always been frugal so there was more than I thought there would be. There was enough to provide me with a buffer so that I could make a change. I didn't tell Helga this, because I thought it bad form to talk about inheriting money. To many, it was a sore spot. Someone else got what they thought they deserved or there was nothing when they thought there would be something. But I never thought about the future in terms of inheriting money. I didn't expect my parents to die -- and I hadn't wanted my parents to die.

While I talked, Helga's eyes widened. Finally, I said I wanted to do things differently. Helga nodded and told me that I was doing the right thing and offered to provide advice and a listening ear along the way. She told me that she loved what she did and that she couldn't imagine doing anything else, but that it was a lot of work. In fact, she said, she worked all the time.

Suddenly I knew what the sensation was that I had been feeling – the expansiveness. It wasn't the size of the land or the azure sky above us. It wasn't that this was my favorite time of year – with the leaves starting to turn and the crickets singing. 

The expansiveness I felt was freedom. The cows were going to live out their natural lifetimes – they were going to live for as long as God intended. This opened the future for me too. I would have a purpose and that purpose was to stop the killing – or at least part of it. Maybe it was small, but it was something.

I took a deep breath and smelled hope.

The learn more about The Cow Sanctuary, click here.

To learn more about my most recently published novel — The Unicorn, The Mystery, click here:

The Unicorn, The Mystery now available from Adelaide Books — #amreading #FaithfullyLGBT

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