Today, April 26, 2020, is my mother’s birthday. We are currently dealing with the COVID-19 outbreak social distancing measures. Personally, no one close to me has been infected with the virus, so I cannot speak to what it’s like to lose someone to the disease. But the fallout from this thing is not measured in deaths alone. I have a two-year-old daughter, my brother has two more similar in age. And they have not been able to see their grandmother in weeks.

For our part, my daughter basically has a third parent - her LiLi (the pet name we have given to my mother, Lise, for the grandchildren). My ex and I both are working full-time, so during the week Iris is normally constantly with Mom. This has been the case since she was only a few months old. And now, just like that, they have been separated. Iris is a two-year-old, so she has not felt the separation quite so keenly. But Mom, well… it breaks my heart to see them split apart like this. FaceTime chats are not quite the same.

You have to know my mother. She is basically superwoman, my hero since I was a little boy. She has a head as hard as the Devil’s (we’ve butted them more than once over the years), and iron will? Ha! Hers is made of titanium. She is a fitness buff (and that is putting it mildly). She teaches classes at the gym (pre-pandemic she did, anyway), she used to co-ordinate all of the group exercise, and she’s participated in a million fitness events. Hell, she has completed two Ironman triathlons. She was training for a third one when her hip gave out, which is part of where the inspiration for this story came about.

My mother has always been my biggest fan, ever since I was a boy. We have not always seen eye to eye on everything, but when the chips were down, this woman has had my back. She always reads my writing (even the bawdy filth) and she always has something kind to say. Sometimes critical, too (see: bawdy filth). I am pretty sure, though, that her favourites are my fables. So I decided to write one, just for her, on her birthday (at least she won’t get upset that I spent money on her).

This pandemic and its restrictions won’t last forever, Mom. I am so excited for the day you are reunited with your babies.

Happy birthday!

Warning: It might not be bawdy, but, like most of my writing, the language is salty.

The Speckled-Udder Sonata

Planets come and planets go
Apocalypso
Undisturbed the dancers flow
Apocalypso
Apocalypso, Jimmy Buffett

🐄

“Keep your hoofs up! Don’t give that cow an inch!”

Lisa Speckled-Udder did her best to follow her trainer’s advice, but by that point in the fight she was burnt out. She had been dancing around the ring for the better part of three rounds and her opponent was ten years her junior. The depth of the elder cow’s vanity (at least in her mind it was vanity) became apparent as she sluggishly tried to avoid a vicious left hook from Kim Rotten-Teats. And failed. Miserably.

Lisa’s vision swam as she tried to hold onto the ropes and stay in the round. One more fall and she would be out. TKO. No, she said to herself. Not tonight. Not in front of this crowd. Not in front of them.

That was when the follow-up jab landed and sent her tumbling into darkness. She wasn’t conscious when the ref put an end to the fight and declared Kim the winner. Nor was she conscious when the paramedics entered the ring, put her on the stretcher, and pulled her out through lifted ropes. It wasn’t until the ambulance was rolling through the darkened city streets that she opened a swollen eye to witness a paramedic sitting on a chair next to her. If she hadn’t been strapped in, the struck pothole would have sent her flying out of the stretcher.

“Jesus Christ, Carl, keep your eyes on the fuckin’ road, pal,” shouted the bull paramedic next to her, smacking a hoof against the wall that separated the cab from the rear. Then the bull turned to face Lisa, snorted and gave her a sheepish shrug. “Sorry about that, love, he’s as useless as tits on a me. How are you feeling?”

“Urk,” managed Lisa. “Like I’ve had a prod rammed up my arse sideways and turned on.”

The paramedic laughed politely then stuck a hoof in her face. “How many toes?”

“Two,” replied Lisa.

“No wait, that’s a shite test – we’re cattle. We only have two toes and we can’t even move them independently of one another. Hold on.” The paramedic picked up a trio of pens from a clipboard, spread them, and held them up for Lisa. “Neat trick, eh? Seeing as how the toes are not opposable, either. How many pens?”

“Three,” said Lisa, exasperated. “I’m fine,” she added. “Aside from having taken a humiliating beating from that bitch Rotten-Teats.”

“Hey, who’s the professional here? I’ll tell you if you’re alright or not.” He pulled a flashlight, got her to follow his hoof with her eyes, and made a few notes on his clipboard. “Yeah, you’re probably fine. Best not to go to sleep tonight, though. You had your skull smashed pretty hard. Thing about these concussions, if you fall asleep with one it can screw you up bad. Do you have anyone who can stay up with you?”

“Sure do,” said Lisa, shaking her head. “The old ball and chain. Though I suspect he’d fall asleep first. Narcoleptic bastard is he.”

“Diagnosed?”

“Huh?”

“Was your husband diagnosed with narcolepsy? Because it’s probably a bad plan if he was.”

“Oh. No, just a turn of phrase, you know? Like saying someone is crazy when they just act in an extreme way, rather than when they have a diagnosed condition like schizophrenia or bipolar disorder.”

“Right,” said the paramedic. He paused. “Never really thought about it that way. That’s a bit fucked up, isn’t it? Maybe we should stop using the word ‘crazy.’ I’m sure I can find some people on the Internet who would agree with that. Hell, maybe I can start a sub-Reddit where me and other people can virtue-signal with feigned outrage out of a thinly-disguised misanthropism and unresolved traumatic experiences from our childhoods.” The paramedic considered once more. “Wait, it wouldn’t be ‘misanthropism,’ would it? Probably more like ‘misanthropoid bovine life form…ism.’”

“Eh,” shrugged Lisa. “Listen, I’m not really in the mood to discuss the creeping edge of political correctness and the socially-enforced modification of language out of a justified desire to avoid hurting people’s feelings. I’m just going to go home. Can you let me off at Bulge Farms?”

“Sure,” said the paramedic. “No wait – there’s a procedure to follow. Hell, a doctor is supposed to see you – here I am practicing medicine without a licence, making a diagnosis and offering treatment recommendations.” The paramedic gulped and pulled his collar. “Say, you won’t share this with anyone at the hospital, will you?”

“You gonna let me out at Bulge Farms?” Lisa had sat up and crossed her arms in front of her.

The paramedic didn’t break her gaze as he hammered on the wall and said, “Carl, new stop – let’s go to Bulge Farms!”

“What?” said Carl. “I thought we had to take her to the hospital. Procedure and all.”

“Just humour me, Carl,” said the paramedic.

“Alright, whatever,” said Carl. “Bulge Farms, it is.” Carl paused. “We still going to McDonald’s after the drop?”

“Yes, Carl,” said the paramedic, shaking his head. “Like I said, useless. He doesn’t give a fuck about much, this job least of all. You know what he gets at McDonald’s? A Big Mac. ‘Light cannibalism,’ he calls it. Degenerate couldn’t bring himself to buy a McChicken or a Filet-O-Fish… I can’t eat with him. I usually have to go sit at another place in the restaurant, one with no sightlines.”

“I can hear you,” said Carl. “You’re such a fucking prude, Maurice. Plenty of cows go in for the long pork… or I mean, long beef. Or, just beef.” Carl took a break from speaking. “It’s tasty, mate. You’re missing out! Hey, stretcher lady!”

“My name is Lisa,” said Lisa, smiling at the exchange.

“Yeah, Lisa,” said Carl. “You ever eat beef?”

“Once or twice,” said Lisa. “When I was in college.”

“Ha!” retorted Carl. “You college cannibals are a dime a dozen. Bulls like me are puttin’ in work – transgressing social norms and sinning for all of you closet cases. See, Maurice here – I bet he dreams of sneaking a bite of hamburgers and steaks when the wife is out for bridge. He comes to work on time every day, well-coiffed, helpful – hell, I bet he even tried to play doctor with you, that’s why we’re not going to the hospital. Such a fucking nerd, always in his lane – he only runs over the line when he tries to be too good. One of these days he’s going to wake up, discover that his time to be put out to pasture is coming up quick, and regret every day he played the proper bull, eating his alfalfa, maybe rodgering his wife once a year. When she lets him.”

Maurice reddened for a moment, wound up to strike the wall, then visibly stiffened and put his arm down.

“Bet you want to smack the living bejeesus out of him, don’t you?” nodded Lisa sagely at Maurice, wincing as the bruises on her face stretched. “What he says true? Do you have any excitement in your life?”

Maurice shrugged. “I used to make model planes. Gave that up when my wife told me that she had to use my den for storage.”

“Jesus Christ, man – I mean, bull – that’s no way to live,” said Lisa. She paused. “Listen, I can commiserate. I used to think I knew what life is, but I had to take care of all of my siblings. I was mother to four other calves when I was barely old enough to lift a fork on my own. I had to be the responsible one – the one everyone could depend on. I barely had enough time for my own dreams, my own desires.”

“So what happened?” asked Maurice.

“We grew up, went our separate ways. I went to college, met a bull, had children. My bull, my children – I kept the train rolling. I was mother to all of them, in a way. My children were my world. Then, as they grew up and went to school, I started to question what it was all for. I mean – what is life if it’s not lived? I had lived it plenty – for other people, that is. I never took any time for myself.”

“Looks like you’re taking plenty time for yourself now,” observed Maurice. “Jesus, I pulled your unconscious body from a stadium. You’re a bloody boxing star!”

“Ah, yes, that,” said Lisa. She sighed. “My pugilistic pursuits began in that period of questioning. I was out for a walk with my kids and I ran into an old friend of mine from college. She had been training down at The Anvil with one of the greats, Caballero Tony.”

“Ah,” called out Carl. “I used to love him! He had some of the greatest fights in all of bovine boxing history. I especially liked his name – caballero means ‘knight,’ or more literally: ‘horse-rider.’ It implies that he rides horses as a mode of transport, which is silly because in this particular fictional reality horses are also anthropomorphic man-beasts with essentially no dissimilarities from humans. It would like saying we were going for piggy-back rides instead of riding into battle on a steed… which works here, too, because pigs in this world - same deal as the horses.”

“Enough of your low-brow knuckle-draggery,” bellowed Maurice. “You just do what you do best, Carl – keep you eyes on the road and your mouth shut.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Carl. “What are you gonna do if I don’t, nerd?” The ambulance slowed to a stop. “Speaking of knights: Bulge Farms, my lady.” Carl turned to face Lisa, hamming it up with a mock bow and big eyebrow raises.

Lisa laughed. “Um, thank you.”

“You mean that’s funny to you?” asked Maurice. “I have been using ‘my lady’ for years now with strangers, and every time I do, women just wince or look at me with some form of disgust. I mean, women deserve so much respect – they are mothers to our children, they are the main threads in the social fabric. They are ladies all. Ha, knights: if I had my way, we’d all be bound to the same chivalric code as the knights of yore, sitting at Arthur’s Round Table.”

“You neck-beard bastard – that might be true, but they don’t turn their snouts up at you because you’re being respectful. It’s because you take it all so fucking seriously,” replied Carl. “That stick you’ve got clenched up your arsehole – consider letting it go, man. I mean, bull.” Carl paused. “Maybe reflect for a moment on the fact that the only one who ever told something resembling the fucking truth back in those days was the jester who jawed and japed and made everyone giggle.”

“Listen, love,” said Lisa, putting a hoof on Maurice’s shoulder. “Why don’t you come down to The Anvil to try out training with us for a few weeks.”

“Yes,” said Maurice. “Good idea. I’d love to learn how to smash up fuckheads like our ‘knightly’ Carl.”

“Beating the shit out of people: that isn’t even close to what boxing is about, sweetie,” said Lisa, looking at the door to the ambulance. She had put it off long enough, listening to the bickering of this strange pair of bulls. She would have to go face them all now. Lisa turned back to Maurice. “Listen, just come down and try it out. This isn’t about anything more than inertia and focus. We don’t learn how to fight so that we can fight, we learn how to fight so we can deal with life.”

“OK,” said Maurice looking down for a moment. Then he caught Lisa’s eyes before she started to exit the ambulance. “Wait, you just fought, though! Why did you fight if it’s not about fighting?”

“Call it a side-effect,” Lisa said, crawling off the stretcher.

“You never finished your story,” said Maurice as Lisa began to close the doors to the vehicle.

“I know,” she replied. “Come on down to The Anvil and I will.”

🐄

“Grand-mere, you have to stop doing this.” The calf had his arms crossed in front of him. His fierce aspect faded as tears welled in his eyes. “I thought you died last night.” He paused. “Haven’t you won enough fights?”

Lisa was expecting this from Jonas. He was the eldest of the three grandchildren and he was the biggest worry-wart, too. Still, though, the calf had a point. She was the eight-time Fodder Cup champion. She had proven her worth to herself more than once. At least, that is the way it looked from the outside. Whatever had to be proven, had been proven. It wasn’t the first time Lisa had heard it, and it wouldn’t be the last. Christ, they didn’t understand. But Jonas was barely more than five, so he had an excuse. Other cattle – less so.

“It’s not about winning fights, Jonas,” said Lisa. “Do you remember the story I told you about the scorpion and the frog?”

“Yes, Grand-mere,” said Jonas. “The scorpion was born a jerk and he died a jerk when he killed the frog. The frog was just a gullible idiot and got what was coming to him.”

Lisa shook her head. How difficult – nay, impossible – it was to teach wisdom. Especially not to a five-year-old with barely any life experience or command of language. Still, though, she had to try, if for no other reason than it soothed her own soul.

“Look, we’re cows, so I get it. We used to be raised for slaughter, until we gained our freedom from the humans. Now we have no masters, so we get to self-direct our own destinies. At least, that’s the way it seems. We all get our free will, we all get to make choices. A narrow band of choices that are socially acceptable. We all live in this modern society that has completely lost touch with what it means to know nature. Our nature.” Lisa paused. “Did you know that our ancestors used to roam free on the land? No cities, no farms, no nothing. We grazed, we slept, we avoided predators. We were as liberated as birds. Sure, there was plenty of danger, some of our ancestors died to diseases and other stuff that’s been wiped out, but our people survived long enough that we are all here today.”

“Do you really think our natures have changed that much?” asked Lisa. “Are we frogs or are we scorpions? Or is that the wrong question? What makes a cow or a bull who they are? A job at a farm? Our ancestors didn’t have those, and they did alright.”

“They didn’t have boxing fights, either,” said Jonas.

“No, they beat each other to death when the mood struck them,” Lisa said flatly. “Sorry, Jonas, Grand-mere is tired and needs more rest. I had a hard night last night and I finally get to get some sleep.”

“OK, Grand-mere,” Jonas stopped at the doorway to his grandmother’s room and turned. “Are you going to keep fighting?”

Lisa smiled at her grandson as she gingerly pulled a cover up over her battered body.

“Why don’t you go see if Grand-pere will take you out for a walk?” asked Lisa. “It’s a beautiful day – plenty of promise on the horizon.”

🐄

Old galaxies can be cold
So I'll hold you close
When this earthly light is burning low
This dance will take you to the next plateau
Apocalypso, Jimmy Buffett