My whole point with this conversation is that for years I've been conflicted with how I feel about my consumption of animal products and the knowledge of how animals are treated prior to landing on my plate. I grew up in a small, rural farming community in Minnesota. I had both friends and family who made their living off of raising animals for consumption, whether it was dairy, beef, pork, or various aspects of poultry. In middle school, I had a good friend who lived on a dairy farm, and I loved going out there to help out with the chores. Obviously doing chores on a dairy farm is far from glamorous, but to a city kid getting dirty and being around farm animals for a couple days was like taking a trip to an exotic country. Clearly my ideas of what constitutes exotic trips has changed over the years, although I did travel all the way to Thailand to shovel elephant poop, so maybe they haven't changed all that much...hahaha!
 |
| Holstein painting by Dottie Dracos |
I would have to say that the first thing a you notice in a dairy barn is the smell, and I'm not just talking about poop, although that can be a pretty strong smell. It's the smell of hay, of furry bodies, of cow breath. You walk into the room that houses the bulk tank (where the milk goes after it comes out of the cow) and it smells like something between cheese and milk and something I can't articulate, but once you've smelled it, you'll be able to recognize it for the rest of your life. Not off-putting, but not something that will ever be featured in a scent of the month at a candle shop. There's a vague sweetness to the scent of it. You walk into the barn and you see a row of rubber boots, which you don immediately upon entering because the odds of stepping in something that you'd rather not get on your normal shoes is high. They're barn boots...that's where they are, and that's where they stay. And thank goodness they can be cleaned off with a simple spray of the hose at the end of the day. You see dust motes and hay dust floating on the breeze created by the fans, you see cats darting around underneath the cows, you might see a dog or two wandering up and down the main aisle, you see cows in their stalls munching away on the hay and a small sprinkle of grain that's been set out for them, you see every imaginable pattern of black and white on their large bodies, you see their big strong hooves, and can't help but think about how much it would hurt to get stepped on, you see their watering devices, which are shallow little bowls with a paddle in the middle that a cow presses on with her nose to get the water to come out, or sometimes you just see individual buckets filled with water, kinda depends on the farm. You might hear Oldies music playing softly on the radio. You also hear the loud gentle breathing of the cows, you hear them munching away, you hear soft contented moos and you hear louder irritable moos, you hear them randomly shuffling their feet around or stamping their hooves when they're bothered; you hear the pumps bringing the milk from the milkers attached to the teats all the way to its final destination at the bulk tank. You feel the warmth of their bodies, the slimy wet lick on your hand when they're convinced you've got a treat for them, their simultaneously soft but not-soft hair, you feel the scratchiness of the hay as it pokes through your barn gloves, you feel the callouses and blisters forming on your hands as you wield a shovel or a pitchfork to clean out each stall.
I remember going out to my friend Krista's farm. She lived on a dairy farm with her parents and her two older brothers. Random fun fact: Krista taught me how to shave my legs without it looking like a blind person with a lawnmower blade had done it. Ha! Back in those days, most small farms didn't have hired hands, that's what the kids were for. I would stay overnight at her house, and we would get up in the wee hours of the morning to go out to the barn to help with the chores. I had itty bitty feet back in those days, and so the barn boots that they had for me to wear were far too large, but they kept my feet clean and dry so they did what they were supposed to do; I just shuffled and clomped about trying to keep up with Krista and her brothers, who were far less enthused about the morning chores than I was. The novelty of tromping around in barn boots in the wee hours of the morning had long ago worn off for them, had it ever been there at all. To be honest, I was probably more of a hindrance than anything, being a city kid and all, but I did my best and they put up with me and it seemed like we were all having fun. Maybe having a random little weirdo tearing around the barn in boots three sizes too big was refreshing if not somewhat entertaining for them. I'd like to think so, anyway.
On Krista's farm, every cow had a name, and every cow had her own stall with her name on it where she was milked twice a day; once in the morning, and once in the evening. If I remember correctly, the cows slept in the barn at night and were let out into the grassy pasture after the morning milking, where they would spend the day until it was time to come back into the barn for the evening milking, which was always a bit of a production. I was not allowed in the main aisle of the barn when the cows were let in for the evening, as it was quite the process and could quite possibly have ended in an accidental trampling. What most people don't realize about cows, is that they are sensitive but stubborn creatures of habit, both good and bad, which is something that a small dairy farmer and his kids know like the backs of their hands. Random city kid, not so much. For example...Bessie always comes in first, and may the force be with whomever gets in her way. Constance always goes into Millie's stall, which results in a small scuffle; a scuffle in this instance being a bunch of disgruntled mooing and stomping of the cloven hooves. Constance is then shamed into her own stall, at which point Millie can proudly claim her spot. Mabel and Lizzie always come in side-by-side. Dorie is always the last to come into the barn, and is admonished with a "quit lollygagging back there!" by one of the kids, and gets a knowing swat on her rear as she ambles on by. What is most impressive about this whole situation, it how orderly and repetitive it is. Every evening is the mostly the same.
After everyone is settled in their freshly cleaned and straw lined stalls, with a nice cube of hay and some corn to munch on, the milking can begin. Farmer and kids move from cow to cow, cleaning her teats and attaching the milkers, sometimes randomly squirting a bit of milk in the direction of one of the many barn cats looking for a handout. I wasn't allowed to help with this part as cleanliness and proper milker attachment is paramount and absolutely not a job for a city kid, so I busied myself with jumping back and forth over the gutters, trying not to fall in (it happened only once that I can remember) and making sure to avoid getting too close to the rear-ends of the cows who were known kickers. After the majority of the milking was done, I remember wandering from cow to cow, giving them a random scratch behind the ears, or a bit of apple or carrot as a treat, fascinated by their long purple tongues and their huge brown eyes. I remember how Krista would point out the nicest cows to me, and we would find two who were laying down next to each other, and we would each settle ourselves in on a cow, resting in the soft warm spot between her belly and her rear leg, slowly rising and lowering with her breath. The original recliner. We would sit like that for as long as her dad would allow, talking about whatever 11 year-olds talk about...probably boys and horses, if I was allowed a good guess. When it was time to turn the lights out we'd leave the barn full of sleeping cows, waking in the morning to do it all over again.
 |
| Helga cuddling her cows (from thecowsanctuary.org) |
Sad because I know that most animals who spend their entire lives in factory farms don't have names. They don't have people scratching their heads or hand-feeding them snacks of apples and carrots. They're born in captivity, they spend their entire lives in captivity, and they die in captivity, known only by a number that was assigned to them at birth. Some of them never get the opportunity to go outside and feel the sunshine on their bodies or feel the breeze on their faces. They don't spend their lives being scratched and rubbed and climbed upon by children; the children of factory farms having been replaced by hired hands, many of whom are over worked and under paid and have little time or use for showing a big stubborn animal any extra kindness.
So I'm conflicted. My memories of the dairy farms of my youth are so very far removed from the videos online where farmers and their hired hands are physically abusing the animals they're raising. I wish there was a simple way to be certain that every animal product I consumed came from a small family farm, where the animals were given names, and love, and treats, and were respected for their sacrifice. It's so easy to walk into a store and buy a pound of hamburger, a gallon of milk, a pound of bacon, or a container of cottage cheese and not give two thoughts as to where it came from or how the animal was treated.
 |
| Holstein painting by Brent Schreiber |
It's a process, and it's one that I've started and quit time and time again. I know it's going to be a challenge, as not only have I mentally and culturally gotten used to eating a way a certain way, but my body has as well. Things are always subject to change, and this isn't something I'm going to be rigid with, because I've got to live my life too. I think the most successful changes are the ones that are developed gradually, with the option to change your trajectory as new information is obtained. So that's where I'm at.
If you're a small family farmer and you have your own little flock of chickens, or herd of cows, or passel of hogs (how cute is that?), give them a pat and a treat for me. They deserve it. :)
