The Stare of Sadie

Sadie

On a cool, foggy morning I crouch next to her, scratching her neck as she stretches, and angles for the optimal position. The emerging sun glints off her hair, reflects back. She looks into my eyes. I gaze back into brown-black pools of what? Intelligence? Thought? Emotions? That and more? We had never communicated like this before – she, a cow; me, a human. For years, I tried to make eye contact, to convey my love, respect, joy at being near her. And, she would look away, shake her head, throw off my advances. Not today.

Sadie is a steady being, a painful one, a creature who is sometimes a complete mystery to me, sometimes a bright light of clarity. I fumble in my friendship with her. She tolerates my awkward attempts at communication, endures my steady hope that today, today is the day we understand each other.

Who is Sadie?

To know Sadie now, you must know who she was…or perhaps, wasn’t.

She wasn’t a daughter. She was an orphan. Born on a small dairy farm in 1999 or maybe 1998, she entered this world only to discover its lack. Like 97% of all female (100% male) calves on dairy farms, she was stolen at birth, she never knew her mother. Oh, she knew the sound her mother made, she knew her mother’s blood, she knew that when she was born, she would search and find her mother’s nipple and milk. But that was before birth, a confusing time of sounds and intermingling sensations.  She was waiting for the after, the next, the future of warmth shared, milk given, time spent with the one who smelled like her.

She wasn’t a decision maker. She was No. 278, all choices made by Farmer #155. Choosing a bull to mate with was not in her future; she was artificially inseminated year after year. Choosing where to eat was perhaps less restrictive – she could pick Trough A or Trough B. But pasture? No. Like 75% of all dairy cows, she spent little, if any time, on actual living grass.

She wasn’t a mother. She was made childless. Every thirteen months, she was artificially inseminated. For nine months, she grew big, expanding to make room for the life inside her. Her udder readied itself for calf-sustaining milk. When her calf, all legs and an awkwardness emerged, she turned to groom, turned to touch and connect. But he was not there. Where could he be? She cried, paced, waited, hoped.

She wasn’t thoughtful or mean; pretty or ugly. She was milk and meat. When she was five, maybe six, her milk source gave up to bacteria, exposed itself to infection. Mastitis, so common and treatable, left her in pain and drained. It is the #1 or #2 reason for killing dairy cows. She is drained of milk belonging to her calf, then discarded when her milk becomes tainted, unusable for human consumption.

Then, she was saved. She did not see it that way. To her, we were not a sanctuary, we were merely more of the same. To treat her infection, we had to  hurt her. We didn’t know, nestled in her womb was another baby. Oh, how much it aches to think of him, growing inside her as we desperately tried to stop her udder from producing more infected milk.  When she went into labor, we were shocked – she had been seen by vets who failed to realize her pregnant status. By the time a vet came out, it was too late. He died in her womb, asphyxiated by what used to be life-sustaining nourishment. She groomed him. The unfairness of it so obvious – she, who had never groomed her own, living babies was finally, this one time only, able to bathe her dead one.

Sadie was an object. Things were done to her. She was denied choices in so many startlingly painful ways. All for milk. All for something we don’t need.

Who is Sadie? Sadie is perfectly imperfect. She walks with a permanent limp, courtesy of vet students incapable of properly loading her into a chute. She is not overtly emotional, choosing to share moment of friendship in quiet solidarity. Sadie is serious. Very serious. Sometimes I sit next to her and make silly jokes, hoping some of the humor  might rub off on her. It does not. I have a feeling even if I could convey those jokes in bovine language, she would still not laugh. This may be reflective of my inability to joke properly.

Sadie has desires and likes of her own. Sometimes, she conveys her dislikes to me – don’t scratch me, don’t touch me, don’t look at me. Perhaps my annoying commitment to bettering our relationship has worn her down. Now, she mostly conveys her likes or indifference- right behind the ear, under the chin, let me lick your arm, yes a massage is okay.

And today. Today, shivering and waiting for the warmth of the sun, Sadie and I make eye contact and it is okay. It is  good. It ends with Sadie resting her head on my leg and licking my arm. How I want to cry.  To tell the world that Sadie is amazing and wonderful, why can’t you all see that? For so long, she has been nothing more than an object. Too long. While I try not to make her into anyone other than she, herself, I know I fail. She is so much more and perhaps less than my expectations and feelings for her. She is a subjective creature with a rich-inner world I have no clue about. In earnest, I try to understand, learn, and in honesty I just love her, respect her, cherish any single moment when she welcomes me into her circle.

Sadie is doing poorly. She struggles daily with her injured leg and the side effects an injury like that causes to a large, adult animal. Her arthritis is worse. She is in more pain. We deal with what we should do to her, though we try so hard to think of it as for her. Today, when she stares steadily at me, I’m trying to translate. To understand. I see pain. I see tiredness. I see what I do and don’t want to see. Mostly, I see big, beautiful eyes belonging to this big, beautiful cow. I want so badly for her to live many more years. I desire it for myself, because I am selfish and love her in a deep, profound way. I do not know what she wants, if she is okay with her suffering and pain, if the joy of being around the other cows is more important, overcoming the physical hurt. Now is not the end for her, but it may be soon. Or it may not. To let her live in dignity, to die on her own terms (be it naturally or with our intervention), that is all we can offer. I hope it is enough for Sadie.