elvis the cow

[Guest guest]

http://www.slate.com/id/2140552/

 

rural life

The World's Smartest Cow

What my steer, Elvis, has taught me.

By Jon Katz

Updated Friday, April 28, 2006, at 6:15 AM ET

 

I had to punch my new Brown Swiss steer in the nose recently. I'm

not proud of it, but he had it coming. Elvis, who weighs 1,800

pounds, had sneaked up behind me and grabbed the hood of my

sweatshirt in his mouth. That I was wearing the shirt seemed of no

concern to him. I felt my feet lift off the ground. He was dangling

me like a Labrador enjoying a smelly sock.

 

So, I wriggled around and slugged him—more of a tap, really. He

seemed startled, even hurt. He let go. Feeling bad, I wondered if a

cow could be trained.

 

He needed it. " We've never seen such a friendly cow, " farmer friends

kept telling me. True enough. When people enter the pasture, Elvis

comes running up to greet them. The effect is rather like a building

lifting off its foundations and charging down a hill: You just pray

he can stop if he wants to. He sticks out his big tongue and slurps.

He grabs at shirts and hats. If you sit down, he'll happily put his

head in your lap. But since his landings are neither graceful nor

accurate, it's not an entirely welcome gesture.

 

Taking snacks to the donkeys one morning, I'd learned that Elvis

loved apples. He came lumbering over, snatched one out of my hand,

and let out an enthusiastic bellow. Maybe I could take advantage of

this. Soon, when I came to the pasture gate, held up an apple, and

yelled " Elvis, come, " he trotted right over. If he got too intimate

or pushy, I flicked him on the nose with two fingers. When he backed

up, I held up my hand and said, " Stay, " in the clear, enthusiastic

voice recommended by dog trainers. To the amazement of me and my

neighbors, he did. ( " I wonder if you could teach him to sit or lie

down, " one of the neighbors asked.)

 

People in town began showing up to see the trained steer. " Maybe

nobody tried to do it before, " my friend Peter Hanks, a dairy farmer

and photographer, observed. " But then, he's an unusual cow. "

 

Elvis was Peter's before he was mine. Peter has been farming for 40

years and is, to say the least, decidedly unsentimental about

livestock. He's has been milking cows or sending them off to market—

that is, the slaughterhouse—for most of his life. They're his

livelihood: He cannot afford to get emotionally attached to them. He

keeps them in big dairy barns, feeds them silage (a sour-smelling

fermented mixture of corn and hay), and doesn't give them names.

 

So, I was surprised when he showed up at my place one day, hemming

and hawing about a steer he called Brownie. He'd never seen a cow

quite like him. " He follows me around like a dog, " Peter

reported. " He puts his head on my shoulder. He licks me. " And,

possibly displaying an unusual ability to figure things out, the

steer had refused to get on the market truck. For the first time,

Peter confessed with some embarrassment, he hesitated to send a cow

to slaughter. Elvis had missed several trucks.

 

That must be some cow, I thought, wondering why Peter was telling me

this story—until I realized that he'd come to the one guy he knew

stupid or crazy enough to take in the friendly monster.

 

Peter was between a rock and hard place. He knew his standing as a

farmer would plummet if word got around that he was keeping a

marketable steer as a large pet. But he also knew that giving him

away would bring even greater jeers.

 

" Am I guessing right? " I asked incredulously. " You want me to take

in this cow that will eat tons of hay every winter—and pay you for

the privilege? "

 

Though truthfully, I'd been thinking about a cow. They don't seem as

intelligent or affectionate as donkeys, but I thought I saw

something soulful and philosophical about them. I like the way they

stare, with great concentration, at nothing in particular. They

appear to understand patience and composure, things I need to learn.

 

So, Peter and I commenced the weeks of obligatory haggling involved

in any major farm purchase. The cow could bring 80 cents a pound at

market, he said. But we weren't sending him to market, I countered.

If I did, said Peter, he wanted half of any revenues. For the first

two years, I agreed. But after that, any revenue would be mine alone.

 

We agreed on a bargain price: $500. Some, including my wife, Paula,

saw no logic in paying for a creature that performed no useful

function, consumed two to three bales of hay daily in winter, and

probably never would go to market. Notions of usefulness vary, I

parried. This was an unusual creature; he would fit in. I named him

Elvis because he seemed like a good old boy.

 

On the spring day Peter backed his livestock trailer up to my rear

paddock and opened the door, five or six of us were standing around,

and all said the same thing at the same time: " Oh my God. "

 

Seen apart from the rest of his herd, Elvis was enormous.

Staggering. The ground shook when he moved.

 

A creature who'd almost never been outside a barn, he seemed

mesmerized by everything he saw. He accepted our nervous pats. But

he was anxious, at first, about being alone. On day two, when he saw

Paula brushing the donkeys in the next pasture, he simply walked

through the fence and trotted over to visit. " He's bigger than our

first house, " she said, calling me on the cell phone from the house.

 

I rushed home from a neighbor's to find Elvis alone, staring

forlornly at the sheep, huddled way up at the top of the steep hill,

and the donkeys, who were hiding in the pole barn, peering out at

him. I had no experience in trying to get a cow to do something it

didn't want to, so I tried friendly persuasion. " Elvis, let's go

home! " I said hopefully, walking back toward his paddock. He trotted

abashedly after me.

 

We put up a single-strand electrified wire that very afternoon. Once

Elvis got buzzed, he never approached the fence again. Maybe he

didn't want to. Everybody who saw him in the following days agreed

that he seemed calm and happy to munch hay, take in the sun, and

gaze at his new surroundings.

 

Cows, it occurs to me, haven't been allowed to be smart. They don't

get the stimulation dogs do, and they haven't lived in the wild

since medieval times. They don't come in the house, chase balls, or

go for walks with us. We regard them as milking machines or walking

steaks, if we think of them at all. Like most people, I hadn't.

 

But Elvis has changed my ideas about cows. He's very social, fond of

me and my helper Annie and my Labrador Pearl. When I take the dogs

out for their morning walk, he moos repeatedly until I bring him an

apple. He's figured out how to move bales of hay into place so he

can snuggle next to them (when he lies down, you can sometimes feel

the vibrations all the way to the farmhouse). He especially seems to

love the view, staring out at the valley much of the day.

 

He is amiable, happy to hang out with the donkeys and sheep, given

the chance. He coexists peaceably with the chickens—with everyone,

in fact. Once or twice a week, he has a burst of cow madness and

goes dancing playfully around the pasture in circles. Trees tremble.

 

Plus, he comes when called, stays when asked, and doesn't grab

clothing anymore. Not all of my dogs will do (or not do) those

things as reliably. I'm very happy to have him on the farm. It will

cost me more than $1,000 to keep him in hay next winter. A bargain.

 

Jon Katz is the author of The Dogs of Bedlam Farm: An Adventure With

Three Dogs, Sixteen Sheep, Two Donkeys and Me. He can be e-mailed at

jdkat3.

 

Article URL: http://www.slate.com/id/2140552

 

You can bomb the world to pieces

You can't bomb it into peace

[Guest guest]

just sit back in your ass groove. The Valley Vegan.................fraggle <EBbrewpunx wrote: oh really? i've heard of the big book book of british smiles...... peter hurd May 3, 2006 11:42 AM Re: elvis the cow Nice story, made me smile.( not a pleasant sight) The Valley Vegan.............. You can bomb the world to pieces You can't bomb it into peace Peter H

 

Switch an email account to Mail, you could win FIFA World Cup tickets.

[Guest guest]

hey....i'll have you know i had to push a 400 lb motorcycle all the way back home yesterday....

my ass groove doesn't fit right anymore

peter hurd May 3, 2006 11:56 AM Re: elvis the cow

just sit back in your ass groove.

 

The Valley Vegan.................

You can bomb the world to pieces You can't bomb it into peace

[Guest guest]

wish it were that simple

bike went belly up yesterday morn.....

peter hurd May 3, 2006 12:12 PM Re: elvis the cow

Hey, if your that strapped for cash , I`ll chip in for a gallon of petrol!

 

The Valley vegan...........fraggle <EBbrewpunx wrote:

 

hey....i'll have you know i had to push a 400 lb motorcycle all the way back home yesterday....

my ass groove doesn't fit right anymore

peter hurd May 3, 2006 11:56 AM Re: elvis the cow

just sit back in your ass groove.

 

The Valley Vegan................. You can bomb the world to pieces You can't bomb it into peace

Peter H

 

 

 

For Good - Sponsor a London Marathon runner and read our runner's blogs. To send an email to -

 

[Guest guest]

yeah..

unfortunately its:

the CEO of our parent company jumped ship on Monday

wots that about rats and sinkin ships??

 

on my end..not a dang thing....

just not a lot out there....

peter hurd May 3, 2006 12:23 PM Re: elvis the cow

Nothin serious I hope? any news on the job front?

 

The Valley Vegan............fraggle <EBbrewpunx wrote:

 

wish it were that simple

bike went belly up yesterday morn.....

peter hurd May 3, 2006 12:12 PM Re: elvis the cow

Hey, if your that strapped for cash , I`ll chip in for a gallon of petrol!

 

The Valley vegan...........fraggle <EBbrewpunx wrote:

 

hey....i'll have you know i had to push a 400 lb motorcycle all the way back home yesterday....

my ass groove doesn't fit right anymore

peter hurd May 3, 2006 11:56 AM Re: elvis the cow

just sit back in your ass groove.

 

The Valley Vegan................. You can bomb the world to pieces You can't bomb it into peace

Peter H

 

 

 

For Good - Sponsor a London Marathon runner and read our runner's blogs. To send an email to -