Tommy's Cow

It has been suggested that the manner in which a community, state or country treats its animals is the true measure of its soul. Gandhi supposedly claimed it to be the measure of their greatness. In either case, I whole heartedly concur. 

I have been vegetarian for almost four decades. The last time I had a burger was a huge, fat, sloppy and utterly delicious mountain of beef from a, I believe now defunct, joint in the San Fernando Valley just off of I-405 in the shadow of an Anheuser-Busch brewery called Tommy’s. We would drive the 30 or so miles after an evening of musical debauchery just to get one. This was in 1973 or so. 

It was during my first cycling adventure up the West Coast (LA to Seattle) that I had a rather magical experience with a heard of cows, and one imparticular. My daily routine was joyfully simple: Wake at first light, this in a beach park listening to waves crash and shorebirds sing, break camp and load the bike, a Raleigh MT400 on this trip, ride to the nearest coffee joint, and head North for another 100 mile day. In California’s Northern coastal counties, Del Norte, Mendocino and Humboldt there are long, sometimes foggy, stretches of road bordered on the right (we are riding north) by verdant farmland and majestic redwoods. To the left is the total awesomeness of the Pacific. It is wild, invigorating and seems miles away from the real world.

I am taking all this in, thinking about my place in it and my responsibilities to it, when I round a turn and come upon an open field eventually declaring as a cow pasture. I start to hear the woeful bales of a cow. As I ride closer I can see the cow is caught in a section of broken barbed wire fence, her head between two strands, There is a small crowd of other cows standing and watching, not sure of what to do. I was’t sure either but I took a chance, parked my bike, opened one pannier and fished out my trusty Leathertman’s multi purpose tool and slowly make my way towards the distressed cow. 

When she looked at me I could see both fear and hope. Her huge brown eyes were pleading, 'please don’t murder me and get me outta here' simultaneously. I tip-toed up to her, said hello and slowly rubbed her forehead, she closing her eyes as I did. 

The Leatherman’s makes quick work of one of the wire strands, enough for me to open the other and allow my bovine buddy to escape. She quickly runs to the (cheering) herd and off they scamper. 

After about ten feet she suddenly hits the breaks and turns to look back at me. I am standing there, watching. She tilts her head slightly looks at me and sends a melodic mooooooooo in my direction. 

To this day I believe the translation to be ‘thank you.’