A Small Death

We were in the rear of the barns, out of sight from the general public. There were several dead cows and calves waiting in the mud to be hauled away by truck - 'culls'. Likely birthing problems; an ongoing cycle in dairy operations where cows number in the thousands.
Among the bodies, she stood serenely, wearing a rope halter, the lead rope held by the foreman. The vet stood at the Holstein's side with an arm-length latex inspection glove on his right arm. Both men seemed impatient to get on to other matters. I'd only learned later that a staph infection had reeked havoc internally and she was doomed. A cull. It was hard to reconcile because she looked so vital and healthy. Someone asked where 'the gun' was. There was none. Someone had used it for hunting.

The vet suddenly produced a shiny scalpel and expertly made a large horizontal incision in her side. She seemed unconcerned. We stood transfixed. He forced his hand along with the scalpel through the wound and downward into her body cavity and quickly severed the aorta and withdrew his arm as blood welled from the opening, down her side and into the mud. The men removed her halter and hurried away to the next chore. She seemed to look to the horizon and, as if she suddenly felt tired, dropped to her knees to lie down on her side, head erect.

I could stand it no longer. The others had also walked away. I walked to her place on the ground and kneeled in the mud beside her head. Soon her eyelids drooped as if very sleepy, and involuntarily lowered her head into my lap with a deep sigh. Her head became heavier with each moment, her pulse a random throb. I wondered sadly if she'd had calves. I wondered how much milk she'd produced for America. I also wondered if anything in the universe knew that she died that morning. I wonder now.