Of Meat and Men

Last week the New York Times Magazine reported on a study of several hundred British dairies published in the journal Anthrozoos that discovered that cows that have names give, on average, about 6% more milk than those that aren’t named.

Undoubtedly, this was a government study as anyone who grew up on a farm could have told you that without needing either a PhD or a grant. On my grandparents farm, our animals were all named. Naming the various creatures was, in fact, was a big deal when we were growing up.

For several years, the bull was named “Charlie”, not because he happened to be a white Charlet, but rather because that was the name of the man from whom my grandparents bought him. Charlie had a wandering eye and refused to stay in our pasture, jumping the fence to visit the trollops one pasture over whenever the opportunity presented itself. In an effort to improve the bloodlines, he was eventually replaced with a red-white faced Hereford mix named “Andy”.

It came from his habit of following the pickup through the pasture and the line from the old gospel song, “And he walks with me, and he talks with me….”

Most animals on family farms got some type of name, or at least a nickname by which they could be identified.

In college, I had different roommates who had families that raised pigs. In one, the current tenant of the feed lot was named either “Bacon” or “Pork Chop” alternately. The other picked the cartoon stand-by of “Porky” and “Petunia” for theirs.

Another family always named their beef steer “Hamburger”.  A steer, incidentally, is a male that sings soprano.

See, when you grow up around animals, you have a pretty clear understanding that while you like and respect the beast, he or she is eventually going to end up in the freezer. There was never any doubt that the ultimate purpose of these animals was to feed the humans that cared for them.

One year, when money was especially tight and cattle prices were very high, my grandparents went to the sale barn not sure how they were going to buy a calf to raise for next year’s meat. Eventually, a very small, undersized little animal was shoved into the ring, and it was immediately obvious that he was blind as he stumbled and ran into the walls, bleating pitifully.

No bids were forthcoming. The auctioneer finally quit trolling for offers and said, “Will anyone pay anything for this calf?”

Grandma’s best “church-singin’” voice sounded out across the stands, ”I’ll give a dollar!” and was immediately followed by the auctioneer’s hammer. Spooky, as he was dubbed, rode home with them that afternoon.

Most of the animals went on to obscurity. Although they were named, and were cared for and respected, they were not intimates with whom you forged strong personal relationships, especially given their career paths. Once in a while, though, one stood out in the family’s lore.

Woody was a black and white Holstein that we raised when my youngest brother was about four. My brother happened to be at the farm when Woody was transported to the meat locker, an exciting event for everyone because a metal cage was attached to the back of their pickup and the steer was then driven up an elevated chute and loaded into the back of the pickup, grand marshal in his own private, if somewhat final, parade.

A month or so later, you went back to the meatlocker and nice white paper packages of hamburger, steak and roasts were carried home and stocked into the freezer.

Not long after that was a holiday, maybe Thanksgiving or Christmas. The entire family had gathered, tables were pushed together and some 30-odd folks bowed their heads as Grandpa asked the blessing on the meal, the centerpiece of which was a huge roast, courtesy of that same Holstein.

Grandpa was always thorough in the task of blessing the food, and there was the opportunity for your mind to wander off if you weren’t careful. This also meant that the end of the prayer could have occurred without your realizing it, leaving that moment of silence immediately afterwards before the food started being passed around.

One person was paying attention, though. As Grandpa’s “Amen” sounded, my brother’s tiny little voice piped across the table, “Poor old Woody, all chopped up. Let’s eat!”

The fact that the cows are named isn’t why they give more milk. It’s the fact that they’re respected and cared for, if not loved. It doesn’t mean that they’re going to escape their fate, but simply that they’re going to have as good a life as possible before that end.

Of course, it’s simply not possible to name 2,200 cattle in a commercial operation. But you have to wonder if the meat and milk might not be better if you could.