It seemed that everyone in the family wanted to worship different gods. The youngest girl wanted to worship the Nickelodeon God, the dad wanted to worship the ESPN God, the oldest, obnoxious son wanted to worship a goddess named Playboy or the Showtime God, while the mom was happy with this Discovery God. Mom won out. Everybody else except the mom and the young girl left the room grumbling, and then I realized that all humans must have a Box God in their own rooms, because the flickering lights started emanating from windows in bedrooms all over the house. What a strange god that instead of bringing people together, divides them.
So I’m kind of enjoying the Discovery God ’cause there are lots of pretty pictures of faraway lands. And it mentions that the name of this one place is India, and that seems to me a beautiful word, and then there are pictures of poverty and people suffering, but there are also cows in a lot of the pictures and I get that feeling of dread that the god is going to start showing these cows getting slaughtered and eaten again, but instead the god says that cows are “sacred” in India, which means respected and special, and he shows pictures of people being really nice to cows and even putting jewelry on them and making them look exotic and pretty. The god says that cows are considered gods themselves in this India place and that no one eats them.
Then the older, obnoxious son runs into the room, grabs the magic wand, and switches the channel to a bunch of men in uniform hitting and chasing and trying to catch a ball. And I learn that the ball is made of the hide of dead horses (cowhide since ’74—that awful summer) and each time the ball gets the slightest bit dirty, they throw it out like it’s no good, like there’s an inexhaustible supply of horses to kill to make more balls, and for all I know there is. And the thing the men wear to cushion their soft little human hands from the hard ball is called a “glove” and is made of something called “leather,” which is just a polite way of saying “the skin of dead cows.” And right before I pass out I think: Is there no end to your cruelty?
18
INDIA
Over and over in my mind, I turn the word over and over: India. India. Like a jewel you might turn in your pocket. India India. I grew distant with this knowledge, distant from the other animals. I became fixated on the house and more secrets I might learn inside it. I learned what signs to look for when the family was going to be away for a while—the suitcases stacked in the car, etc.—and then I would go down to the house and continue my research. I found out so many things. I found children’s books where animals were beloved and even heroes. Even cows. Cows were heroic to the children in these books. A cow even jumped over the moon in one. Admittedly, it got unbelievable by the end and totally lost me when the dish ran away with the spoon (I mean, come on), but still, that was one bad cow.
I was confused at how people could mistreat and eat us on the one hand and then celebrate us on the other for qualities they admired. It was then I realized that humans were very complicated and confused and I could spend the rest of my life puzzling them out. I decided I didn’t have time to do that. I would spend the few years I had left on this planet trying to figure myself out, trying to figure out the mind of the cow, and if there was any time left over, then maybe, maybe, I’d think about humans again.
I found other books with maps and charts that showed every part of the world, showed me where this magical land of India was. It truly existed, this place where the people had wised up and realized that we cows were gods too. There were so many other lands and countries, more than I could memorize. I thought about how lucky those cows were that were born in India and got to spend their lives there. And then I thought: Why not me? I thought: WHY CAN’T I GO TO INDIA?
19
OPERATION INDIA
I became obsessed. All day long, 24/7, I thought of India and little else. I grew apart from Mallory, who was swelling bigger every day, and that made me sad, but I was now a cow on a mission. I thought constantly about how I might get there. I knew it was far, far away, on the other side of the world actually, and that I would have to cross an ocean. (Ever seen a cow swim? Exactly.) And I wasn’t one of those cows who could just jump over the moon to get there. No, I had to get on a plane. Where would I find a plane? In a city. Where was the nearest city? About fifty miles away, within walking distance. So if I could make it to a city, I could make it to an airport, and if I could make it to an airport, I could find a plane going to India, and if I could find a plane going to India, I could get on it. It was a plan. Yes, there were a lot of ifs in it, but it wasn’t impossible. And it was so much better than the alternative: death, being eaten and turned into shoes, jackets, couches, car interiors, and baseball gloves.
So I committed myself to it. Operation India. I was going to wait till the end of winter, when the walking weather would be better, and then I was going to walk to the city and get on a plane. I started to believe.
But I also started to feel guilty. I would be leaving Mallory and my other cow friends and cow workers behind. Even those stupid bulls didn’t deserve their fate, same with the stupid chickens, and the pigs and horses. Keeping the knowledge to myself started to eat away at me, so I decided I had to tell someone about my plan: Mallory.
One night, when everyone was asleep again, I nudged her with my snout …
ELSIE
Mallory, Mals—wake up …
MALLORY
Ugh, I feel like such a fat cow … What is it?
ELSIE
I need to tell you something.
MALLORY
What? Why you’ve been such a bitch lately, is that what you’re gonna tell me?
ELSIE
Well, yeah … yeah. And also …
And then I told her pretty much everything I told you, pretty much the way I told it to you.
In the movie version, you’d have cool music playing, preferably a big hit from last summer, as I talk animatedly to Mallory and you see her wide eyes go even wider. Kind of a montage but not totally. Look, I’m not telling the director what to do, I am merely suggesting.
(But that would be the best way to shoot it, that’s all I’m gonna say.)
When I finished, Mallory’s mouth was wide open and I could’ve tipped her over very easily, she was that stunned. And by the way, cow tipping is stupid and we’re onto it. Maybe we’ll start some human tipping, or maybe we just feel like lying down and sleeping and don’t mind getting pushed over by the likes of you—ever think of that, genius? You know who you are.
MALLORY
OMG.
ELSIE
I know, right.
MALLORY
No way.
ELSIE
Yes way, and I am going to—
MALLORY
Shut the—
ELSIE
Overlapping
Shut the front door.
MALLORY
—front door.
There was a long silence between us. Reminded me of the old times when we were so close we didn’t even have to speak to know what the other was thinking. Sistas. Then …
MALLORY
What are you gonna …
ELSIE
Operation India.
MALLORY
Catchy.
ELSIE
Thank you.
MALLORY
You gotta.
ELSIE
Gotta what?
MALLORY
Go.
Like I said—Mals and me: sistas.
20
BABE, I’M GONNA LEAVE YOU
(see Zeppelin, Led)
It took weeks for Operation India to come into crystal-clear focus. I had maps I had to deal with and figuring out the best way to get into the city without somebody reporting a lost cow. Once I got there, I had no idea how I was going to get on a plane, I just knew I couldn’t wait any longer. As I was sleeping one night deep in conversation with my mother, I felt something rooting around my feet. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw it was Jerry the pig. He had curlicues made of weeds danglin
g from his ears and he was carrying an old, tattered, leatherbound book that he held with great reverence. I believe in the screenplay this is called the beginning of Act Two:
JERRY
’Sup?
ELSIE
’Sup, yourself.
JERRY
I mean what is up? What is up with you? What is afoot?
What’s with all the maps and the whispering with Mallory at night?
ELSIE
Nothing.
JERRY
I’ll tell you what I think is up. I think you’re planning to get outta Dodge.
ELSIE
As if.
JERRY
Don’t stonewall me, cow. You’re thinking of makin’ a break, skedaddling, blowing this Popsicle stand, makin’ like a banana and splitting, makin’ like a tree and leavin’ on a jet plane, bustin’ a moooo-ve …
(Here’s the thing about JERRY—he won’t stop saying these obsessive strings of synonymous figures of speech till you stop him, it could literally go on forever. So to maintain my own sanity, I had to stop him.)
ELSIE
Okay. So what if you’re right, so what if I am?
JERRY
Well, did you ever stop to think of what will happen to the rest of us if you vamoose, if you fly the coop, if you go all goodbye yellow brick road—
ELSIE
You’ll be fine.
JERRY
No, we won’t. The farmer will come down on us like a ton of bricks, like the hand of God, like—
ELSIE
Okay. What’s your point? Why is that my problem?
JERRY
My point is, I wanna go too.
ELSIE
No. No way.
JERRY
You think you’re the only one who knows the lay of the land? You think you’re the only one who knows which way is up, which side your bread is buttered on—
ELSIE
Jerry!
JERRY
Sorry—that’s like a thing with me, I know. I’ll keep an eye on it, you know, note-to-self it, stick a pin in it, damn, sorry—what I’m sayin’ is I know where the truffles are, woman. They’re gonna eat me just like they’re gonna eat you. It’s a damn holocaust in here.
(I fell silent. I knew JERRY was right, but I didn’t know what I could do. A cow traveling is bad enough, but a cow and a pig, fugeddaboutit. JERRY kept on, though.)
JERRY
And I got skills. I got mad skills. I got skills to pay the bills. Pigs are wicked smart. We are well liked. I can help.
ELSIE
Look, Jerry, even if I could take you, the same thing is going to happen to you in India. They’d eat you there as soon as they’d look at you. Apparently pork is quite tasty.
JERRY
Low blow, dude. Can you say “hamburger”?
ELSIE
I’m sorry. But it’s true. Cows are sacred in India, but pigs are just, well, pigs.
JERRY
You got your map there?
(And I did. I had stolen a map of the world and a couple of Encyclopaedia Britannica volumes from the house to research and figure out all my routes. I knew the family wouldn’t notice their absence, ’cause they now got all their information from their phones. Come to think of it, a phone would be handy, but how could I ever work the touch screen with my big ol’ hooves?)
JERRY
Hoof it over.
Jerry unrolled the map with his mouth, getting pig mucus all over it, which I did not appreciate.
JERRY
Looky here.
He pointed with his flat, circular snout to somewhere in the Middle East, the original place that cows come from, pretty far away from glorious India.
ELSIE
So? Iraq?
JERRY
No, not Iraq. Here, right over here. Israel, baby.
ELSIE
Israel? What’s in Israel?
JERRY
It’s nothing in Israel. It’s what they do in Israel, or more precisely what they don’t do.
ELSIE
What, Jerry, what do they do or not do in Israel?
JERRY
It’s a little thing I like to call “kosher.”
ELSIE
What’s kosher?
JERRY
It’s an ancient dietary regimen of the Jews. Prohibitions. Commandments. Restricti-on-ays. [He said it like it was a Spanish word.]
ELSIE
What are Jews?
JERRY
It’s a long story, some say the greatest story ever told, but basically, Jews are Christians with longer sideburns. And a better sense of humor.
ELSIE
Wha?
JERRY
And funny hats.
ELSIE
Wha?
JERRY
The yarmulke … the original Hair Club for Men.
ELSIE
Wha?
JERRY
You with all the wha, wha, wha … keep your eye on the ball, cow, keep your eye on the doughnut and not the hole, and pick up what I am layin’ down. The ancient Jews thought pigs were unclean for some reason that historians argue about, they called us swine, they called us “traif” (along with shellfish, don’t ask). They were disgusted by us. Can you imagine? I cannot. [He held up the old book.] These are the people of the book. The word, the law.
ELSIE
What book word law?
JERRY
This is the Torah, in the Old Testament, but I just call it the testament ’cause it didn’t need a new one, got everything right the first time around.
ELSIE
Fine, fine, but what you describe sounds terrible, why would you wanna go somewhere you’re hated?
JERRY
Hatred can be as useful as love.
ELSIE
You lost me, bro.
“Call me Shalom.”
JERRY
Because they hate us pigs so much they won’t eat us!
ELSIE
Ahhhhh …
JERRY
It’ll be heaven. I’ll walk down the street, and people will get outta my way like I’m Clint Eastwood. Nobody will talk to me, they won’t even look at me, but best of all, I won’t wind up on their damn plates next to some friggin’ apple sauce!
I had to admit, Jerry had a point, a very valid point, and I agreed that being a pariah was better than being eaten, especially for someone with the stunted social skills of a Jerry, who might actually enjoy living the life of an antagonist. I’d be a god and he’d be a devil, and we both would live. Humans are ridiculous, but we were desperate. So I relented. I nodded. I said that he could come and I would do my best to get me to India and him to Israel, but I couldn’t promise anything. He smiled, grunted, kissed my knee with his snout, and said—“Next year in Jerusalem, my friend.”
Then he added, “Call me Shalom.”
21
LET’S GO: TURKEY
Finally I had my route to the city plotted out. Jerry, I mean Shalom, was a pain in the tuchus, but he was proving to be pretty helpful with logistics. I have to admit, Shalom is pretty smart. One night, about three days before Jerry and I were gonna make a break for it, I was just standing, thinking about life in India and how much fun it would be to be worshipped as a god, when I heard a very strange noise by the barn door, a kind of shuffling and a gargling sound, like somebody was simultaneously trying to swallow a bunch of marbles while saying the word marble. Certain sections of the barn were lit where the windows let the moon in, and whatever it was was walking, or maybe strutting is a better word, to a spot on the ground where I could see who it was. A turkey.
Now, we cows don’t know the turkeys well at all. They are kind of kept in an area away from us. Sometimes we pass them on the way out to pasture, but we rarely talk. They’ve always struck me as really nervous, the kind of nervous that wears out your sympathy and just ends up making you nervous too, so you avoid it, and them. But I couldn’t avoid this turkey ’cause he was walking
right at me.
TURKEY
Are you Q, the cow formerly known as Elsie Bovary?
ELSIE
Who wants to know?
TURKEY
The name is Turkey, Tom Turkey.
Now, he said this the way “Bond, James Bond” says it, so I really had to stifle a laugh. I acted like I had a chicken feather in my throat.
TOM
Meleagris gallopavo, Mama-san. Not to be confused with Numida meleagris, the helmeted guinea fowl. You okay there, little lady? ’Cause I totally know the Heimlich maneuver.
ELSIE
No, no, I’m good, I’m good.
(As he got closer, I could tell this turkey didn’t take care of himself. He was rail-thin and his feathers were all uncombed, flying off in every direction. Even so, he seemed a bit vain and impressed with himself, and walked with the confident strut of a pimp from a ’70s blaxploitation movie.)
TOM
I guess right about now, you’re asking yourself, “Self, what is that gorgeous hunk of turkey man all about and why is he pimp-rollin’ my lucky way?”
ELSIE
No. Not even close.
TOM
C’mon, baby, let’s be real.
ELSIE
I was wondering when was the last time that little flightless bird had a meal. Boy oh boy, you are thin.
TOM
Thank you for noticing.
ELSIE
I’ve got some slop here the pigs left and some chicken feed the chickens didn’t finish.
And with that, the natural nerves of the turkey overwhelmed him, and he lost all semblance of pimp-roll bravado, reacting to the food the way Dracula does to a cross.
TOM
Keep that food away from me! Are you insane?
ELSIE
What? You just looked like you could use a meal, is all. You look terrible.
TOM
I’m all muscle, baby girl. All muscle, gristle, and bone.
Holy Cow Page 4
