Member-only story
I Grew Up on a Cattle Ranch and I’ll Never Eat Beef Again
I truly love cows — so I stopped eating them
I grew up on a cattle ranch. Cows always brought me great joy and wonder. I was entranced by watching a newborn calf get up on its wobbly legs for its first trip to the lunch counter. Or a few weeks later when that calf would join his brothers and sisters — just before sunset and with the wind picking up — racing around, tails in the air, frolicking in the green pasture.
Most of the cattle liked attention from me. But none more than The Bull. We named all the cows, but since there was only one bull, he was simply ‘The Bull’. Kinda regal. I’d scratch his back, then his head. The Bull liked me scratching his head. And when he shook his huge head and horns, that was the signal it was playtime. So he’d lower his head and I’d press my left hip against his forehead, and then he’d toss me up in the air like a sack of flour. With a little snort he’d shake his head again, as if to say, “That was fun! Let’s do it again!!” Me, a little kid, and The Bull, weighing in at around a ton, were jousting. And we’d do it again, and every time he’d raise the stakes a bit, tossing me higher and further.
