Swine, meet cow.
You've reached a weird stage in life when your professor lends you his wife's car so you can drive two hours to interview a farmer about cows.
With keys in ignition I stared at a crumpled poppy on the floor wondering how much was invested in this story. I refused to let this car be the collateral damage for a story about mini cows. Would not let that happen.
So I was cautious. But the car maxed out at 90 on the 417.
I heard my prof snickering while I watched my reflection in the rims of passing cars. I was the mini cow of the road, and the big cows would not be forgiving.
Where are you fellow mini cows?
An hour later, the sun was gone. It was 4:30 and I had no landmarks to tell me how far away I was from this farm. The farm was located on a road that did not exist on Google Maps and I'd lost the directions given to me by my interviewee.
I got to a juncture of a familiar road and called my subject. She said to turn left and that the road naturally curves to the right.
My car slid across the hardened mud road.
Suddenly I was driving through a forest. One lane, zero visibility, road speckled with stones that looked as sharp as the studs on a police speed belt.
Where the hell did these people live?
Picture a cow's intestines. Now consider taking a city car through one. That was this road.
I was afraid I was going to run over someone's goat or get shot by a hunter, but the prospect of turning around scared me even more. The forest had the ominousness of the forest in DiCaprio's The Beach where they would let people go septic and die.
I got to a dead end, cried bullshit in vain because none appeared, then inched back and forth in my bright yellow buggy and replayed the trip down in reverse.
Naturally curves to the right ... except where it doesn't.
No headlights will suffice.
I arrived in pitch darkness with the stupid optimism only journalism students can sustain. No tripod, shitty flash, and 'hey!' you've got a wonderful rustic farm! I love the no lights everywhere!
I traipsed into the cow pen with my interviewee and her grand daughter.
Fellow mini moos! I cried. Hello! Mwah mwah mwah . . .
They darted sideways like I've never seen cows do. An ability unknown to my car. They stared at me like I'd barged into the meeting of five pregnant women at the church gossip club - with an aloof cold suspicion.
I've never seen one like that, I thought I heard one of them say. What the hell is that?
I slowly drew my camera up to my eyes, causing them to wince from the multiple flash required to focus in the darkness. I could barely see what I was shooting, and could never be sure when the camera would snap.
Most of my photos look like I was mauled by a cow: A sideways photo of cow's cloudy eye, a hoof, the side of my interviewee's head and a cow's flank.
"They're very docile" my interviewee said. "But the bull's a bull." She laughed. "You can never trust them."
The bull stared at me and I felt it taking apart my limbs into all the cuts of beef it would eventually become.
Dexters are small - they eat half as much as a regular cow, and are only about 3-4 feet tall, but we're still talking 300-pounds of animal - most of which was pregnant.
I decided to try to get some photos near the barn where there were a couple incandescent bulbs. My interviewee and her grand daughter went inside as it was getting cold.
"Watch out for the electric fence," she said. "See that orange ribbon?"
"No."
"Just don't touch anything."
With little surprise, the cows were not more welcoming to me when I was alone. I was beginning to think they were plotting my death via heart attack. All they needed to do was charge towards me and Finito Laura.
An electric fence on one side. Four angry cows on the other.
I hid behind the gate and pried opened the chicken coop hoping there was room. A peacock said something snobby that I didn't quite catch.
Suddenly there was mooing. All I could hear was the reverberations of the cow closest to me.
I drove two hours for you cow! I will get your cute little noggin in my camera NOW.
Was it the lingering H1N1 that they didn't like?
I looked up at the side of the barn and saw it. These cows weren't just docile and smart.
"Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy" I thought I read on the side of the barn.
What followed was a blur. We may have re-enacted Animal Farm.
The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.
Despite the lingering cough, the swine has not got me yet. I swear.
With keys in ignition I stared at a crumpled poppy on the floor wondering how much was invested in this story. I refused to let this car be the collateral damage for a story about mini cows. Would not let that happen.
So I was cautious. But the car maxed out at 90 on the 417.
I heard my prof snickering while I watched my reflection in the rims of passing cars. I was the mini cow of the road, and the big cows would not be forgiving.
Where are you fellow mini cows?
An hour later, the sun was gone. It was 4:30 and I had no landmarks to tell me how far away I was from this farm. The farm was located on a road that did not exist on Google Maps and I'd lost the directions given to me by my interviewee.
I got to a juncture of a familiar road and called my subject. She said to turn left and that the road naturally curves to the right.
My car slid across the hardened mud road.
Suddenly I was driving through a forest. One lane, zero visibility, road speckled with stones that looked as sharp as the studs on a police speed belt.
Where the hell did these people live?
Picture a cow's intestines. Now consider taking a city car through one. That was this road.
I was afraid I was going to run over someone's goat or get shot by a hunter, but the prospect of turning around scared me even more. The forest had the ominousness of the forest in DiCaprio's The Beach where they would let people go septic and die.
I got to a dead end, cried bullshit in vain because none appeared, then inched back and forth in my bright yellow buggy and replayed the trip down in reverse.
Naturally curves to the right ... except where it doesn't.
No headlights will suffice.
I arrived in pitch darkness with the stupid optimism only journalism students can sustain. No tripod, shitty flash, and 'hey!' you've got a wonderful rustic farm! I love the no lights everywhere!
I traipsed into the cow pen with my interviewee and her grand daughter.
Fellow mini moos! I cried. Hello! Mwah mwah mwah . . .
They darted sideways like I've never seen cows do. An ability unknown to my car. They stared at me like I'd barged into the meeting of five pregnant women at the church gossip club - with an aloof cold suspicion.
I've never seen one like that, I thought I heard one of them say. What the hell is that?
I slowly drew my camera up to my eyes, causing them to wince from the multiple flash required to focus in the darkness. I could barely see what I was shooting, and could never be sure when the camera would snap.
Most of my photos look like I was mauled by a cow: A sideways photo of cow's cloudy eye, a hoof, the side of my interviewee's head and a cow's flank.
"They're very docile" my interviewee said. "But the bull's a bull." She laughed. "You can never trust them."
The bull stared at me and I felt it taking apart my limbs into all the cuts of beef it would eventually become.
Dexters are small - they eat half as much as a regular cow, and are only about 3-4 feet tall, but we're still talking 300-pounds of animal - most of which was pregnant.
I decided to try to get some photos near the barn where there were a couple incandescent bulbs. My interviewee and her grand daughter went inside as it was getting cold.
"Watch out for the electric fence," she said. "See that orange ribbon?"
"No."
"Just don't touch anything."
With little surprise, the cows were not more welcoming to me when I was alone. I was beginning to think they were plotting my death via heart attack. All they needed to do was charge towards me and Finito Laura.
An electric fence on one side. Four angry cows on the other.
I hid behind the gate and pried opened the chicken coop hoping there was room. A peacock said something snobby that I didn't quite catch.
Suddenly there was mooing. All I could hear was the reverberations of the cow closest to me.
I drove two hours for you cow! I will get your cute little noggin in my camera NOW.
Was it the lingering H1N1 that they didn't like?
I looked up at the side of the barn and saw it. These cows weren't just docile and smart.
"Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy" I thought I read on the side of the barn.
What followed was a blur. We may have re-enacted Animal Farm.
The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.
Despite the lingering cough, the swine has not got me yet. I swear.
posted by Laura @ 9:25 AM
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