The Adventures of Ushiko - A Cow's "Tail"
Chapter 1 – My Humble Beginnings
I suppose there are people out there who might be interested in hearing what life is like for a cow. To those who are, you should please continue reading, with my thanks. To those who aren't, you shouldn't feel too badly about it. Most humans aren't too concerned with the lives of cows, and to be perfectly frank, many of my kind like it that way. If too many humans take an interest in us, it makes life less peaceful and more bothersome, if you know what I mean.
Anyway, "mooving" on - if you'll excuse the bovine expression - I'll continue with my story. My tale begins in a modest setting – a smallish farm on the northern edge of a small place called Mineral Town. On that farm, I was born to a sassy, but wise and very loving brown cow by the name of Kiki. My first memory is of a dark, scary night with howling winds and pelting rain on the barn roof. My mother was calmly lying on her fresh straw, with me wedged as tightly against her as I could go, shivering for all I was worth. The rest of the animals in the barn – a large ewe and another cow – were fidgeting and calling nervously. They were mentioning something about unstable building materials, but as my mother didn't seem worried, I soon fell asleep again. I don't remember exactly how old I was at the time; I couldn't have been more than a couple of weeks though. At any rate, when I woke up, the barn was still standing, much to the relief of the ewe and the other cow, whose names were Sally and Ursula, respectively. Naturally, the thought of the barn's crashing down on our heads had never occurred to me, so I had no idea how very much in danger we had been. As it had turned out, the farmer hadn't much money at the time, and he had built our barn with the best material he could afford – wood. I found out later in life that we had all come very close indeed to losing our lives that night. Fortunately, no other storms as strong as that one came through all season, so when the farmer had more money in the fall, he built us a better barn made of stone, and even the fussier animals in our company were content.
I'm getting off track here, but you should bear with me. We cows do that very often, as going off track often leads to lovely trails one would never discover otherwise. Since you humans tend to like things more direct, I'll do my best to keep to the path I've intended for this story. As I was saying, my mother was a very strong cow, and I remember her so, even from my earliest memory. She taught me a great many things about life, love, and about the farm and all its inhabitants. Every clear day, the farmer – a young man named Rick – would let us outside to graze and enjoy the fresh air, and my mother taught me all about the birds, the plants, and the world around us. I learned that our owner, the farmer, was still rather new at his job, but he was very good at it, and even though he didn't have much money yet, his human acquaintances were already beginning to give him business.
It was also from my mother that I grew to understand how much we needed this man, and how important it was for us to be kind to him and help him out. After all, if you'll beg my pardon, you humans are a very fragile, unintelligent lot. You haven't enough sense to store in extra fat for the colder months, and your skins are so thin that it's a wonder they even keep out water. If it weren't for your amazing building abilities, you'd most likely freeze to death, you poor things. So as soon as I was able, I did everything I could to let the farmer know that I was his new friend. I would run up to greet him whenever he entered the barn, and I'd playfully butt my head against him in my zeal sometimes, inadvertently knocking him over. My mother would scold me in these cases, but bless him, that young human was ever so good-natured. He'd laugh and scratch me delightfully between my ears before getting back up and giving us our food and water or letting us out. I grew to love him nearly as much as my mother.
However, my story is not a happy one all the way through. I loved my life on that farm, and I loved my mother, the farmer, and even Sally and Ursula, who were, although more prone to grumpiness and pessimism than my mother, very kind and gentle in their own right. But the happiness was not meant to last. One day, not long after I had finally begun to eat and enjoy grass more than my mother's milk, Rick came into the barn with a rope, which he fastened about my neck and used to lead me outside. I can remember thinking it strange, that he was taking me out alone, without my mother and the others, but as I had learned to trust him completely, I accepted it as simple human eccentricity, and I followed him obediently. My mother called after me as I left the barn, and told me that wherever I went, I was to be a good cow and make her proud. At the time I thought it very strange. It wasn't long before I understood that it had been a farewell. I had just been sold, and I would never see my mother or the farm I had grown to love ever again.
I was taken to a farm in an adjoining valley, which the humans called Forget-Me-Not-Valley. There was a small town there, but I think it was unnamed. Most people referred to it as simply the valley's name, as though it was just another part of the landscape. When I arrived, I was still very bitter about my abrupt parting with my mother, and I immediately thought it was the ugliest place on earth.
I didn't even look at Rick as he led me off the truck and through the gates of the farm which was to become my new home. I couldn't look at him. I felt betrayed, and I felt I should never trust another human again. He scratched my back as he waited for his customer – a young farmer by the name of Jack – to meet him at the gate and take me away. I angrily swished my tail at his hand in reply. I wanted no more scratching from Rick. I had never felt so hurt in my life.
"I'm sorry, Ushiko," he sighed, patting my shoulders gently. "I know it's hard, having to move away from your home and leave the ones you love. I've had to do it myself before. I know how it feels. But this boy is very kind, and he'll treat you very well. I would have liked to keep you on my farm forever, but I just can't afford it. I have too many barns, and little room for more cows. I must sell the ones I can't take care of, or you'll go hungry. Jack offered me twice my normal asking price for you. He wants a cow very much, and I told him that you were very gentle and wonderful. Won't you give him a chance?"
I snorted disdainfully in reply, determined to give this Jack a very hard time indeed. I had learned my lesson. Humans were not to be trusted. I did my best to ignore both him and Rick when my new master came running out of the small farmhouse at full speed, nearly tripping over a clump of weeds as he came. Unfortunately, my curiosity forced me to give him a scrutinizing look. He was a scrawny thing –even more so than Rick– and he had a patch of untidy dark hair protruding from his faded ball cap. He wore faded, light blue overalls with a red checked shirt, and the outfit was completed with a pair of sturdy-looking boots. Rick smiled when he saw him. I turned my head and snorted disdainfully.
When he reached us, he had to pause for a moment to catch his breath. He looked at us eagerly, and he shook hands with Rick. "Thank you so much for bringing her so quickly," he exclaimed. "I'm in dire need of a good cow. My farm is really suffering for money, and her milk will add a great deal to my income. I can't wait to get her settled!"
"She's quite young yet for milk," Rick laughed. "She's only a heifer still. But give her another season, and she'll produce fine milk. Her mother is the best cow I own. I'm really very sad to give little Ushiko up, but I thought you would find it much easier to make friends with a young cow than an older one already set in her ways. Here," he said, handing Jack a burlap sack with some odd-looking lumps at the bottom. "In here you will find the brush, milker, and gloves that you ordered. Be sure to brush her and pet her regularly, and don't let any wild dogs harass her either. Take good care of her, Jack."
"I will, Mr. Rick," the boy replied, taking the sack and my rope lead from Rick's extended hands. "Don't worry. This cow means more to me than you can imagine. I'll be very good to her."
So began my life on Jack's farm. It sounds very promising, doesn't it? Well, I hate to say that it wasn't at all. Jack most likely meant well, but he was not at all like Rick. He led me out to pasture every day, but his fields were lumpy and devoid of even the least appetizing grass. I had to settle for the dry fodder he imported from the out of town. And he wasn't at all good at brushing me or petting me. He often brushed too hard, or he patted me in annoying places, like my rump or my belly. His dog was annoying too. The thing followed Jack nearly everywhere he went, and he was annoyingly playful and nippy around me. I had to fight off the urge to give him a satisfying kick on many an occasion.
Despite my discomfort and annoyance at Jack's inexperience, my anger at being sold slowly began to weaken to a dull pang of sadness. I missed my mother terribly, but we cows are sensible creatures, and we know when our lot in life has been chosen, and we accept it with dignity and grace, if we can. I still didn't trust humans, but I decided that I would forgive Rick for his mistake. He must have cared about me at least a little, and I knew that he was right about his overcrowded conditions. While grazing, my mother and I got to meet many of the other animals on the farm – the ones that didn't live in our own barn – and there were a great many of them for such a small area. It was little comfort to me, but at least I knew that I was making a little more room for the others by being here instead of back home.
Every day, Jack came twice to check on me, change my fodder, and either put me outside, bring me back in, or just spend time with me. Eventually, I grew accustomed to his clumsiness, and I couldn't help but shake my head at his ineptitude. He had nothing but kind words and caresses, but he was a very poor substitute indeed for my former master. Just the same, I developed a grudging respect for him. I had been taught at an early age what we cows were to humans, and vice versa, no matter how much I distrusted them. I had to accept the inevitable and do what I could to make things easier – not for him, really, but for myself. In my mind, that's really all that mattered. So to alleviate some of my own frustration, I began "training" Jack. When he brushed me, I made sure to let him know when he was doing something right by mooing at him. When he did something wrong, I snorted and tossed my head angrily. Likewise, when he was late getting me my fodder, I let him know just as noticeably, but when he came to talk to me after a nice night's rest with a full set of stomachs, I mooed at him reassuringly. He was a surprisingly good learner, and before long I had him trained well enough to keep me fairly satisfied and almost happy.
That whole summer season was rather uneventful, but my training sessions with Jack kept me pretty busy when he was around, and when he wasn't, I busied myself by learning the names and habits of the mice and rats that lived in the barn. They were a lively bunch, and they appreciated it when I dropped a few mouthfuls of straw for them, even though it didn't seem to be their food of choice. They gave me news from the outside world, something I hadn't been exposed to before. They told me intriguing stories of goddesses, witches, and sprites, and it made me wonder what it must be like to live in a world like that, rather than being cooped up in a barn all the time. Their company was a comfort to me, and I asked them to stay as long as they could, because I enjoyed chatting with them.
When fall came around, the mice visited less frequently, as they were busy scrounging up food for the coming winter months. I became bored and grumpy, and I got irritated with Jack more frequently. It wasn't really his fault, now that I look back on it, but at the time, I blamed him for a lot of my discomforts. The truth was that I was restless, and I was getting bored with my surroundings. Although the tales from the mice had entertained me, they had also done me a disservice, because I found myself longing to be a part of them, rather than be just a simple farm cow. I began to wish that I could hop the fence surrounding my pasture, and go out to explore the world. Little did I realize that my opportunity was fast approaching.
On a crisp, clear autumn night, I was standing out in my pasture, silently cursing Jack under my breath for being late to bring me back inside where it was warmer. I paced along the fence to keep my legs warm, and while I was doing so, I noticed that some of the lumber he had used to build his fence was rotting away, and in places there were holes almost big enough for me to shimmy through. I stared at these exits curiously for a while, and I was so interested that I hadn't noticed a stranger sneak into the pasture when I wasn't looking. A stray dog had wandered onto the farm, and he had crept through one of the holes in the fence. He was slowly creeping along behind me, sizing me up to see if I might make a feasible dinner. In the end, his hunger overcame his better judgment, and he leapt at me, snapping his jaws tightly around my tail, narrowly missing one of my back legs as I stepped forward.
I let out a terrified moo and kicked behind me with one foot and then the other, trying to dislodge the growling object from my person. The dog let go of my tail just in time to keep his own skull from being crushed against my hoof, but not fast enough to keep me from clipping him in the side. He yelped, and I panicked. I lunged forward, tearing through one of the holes in the fence before bounding into the woods bordering Jack's farm, spooked and still stinging where the dog had bit me. It wasn't until a quarter of an hour later, when I ran out of steam and crouched on wobbly legs, panting heavily, that I realized that I had escaped the farm, and I was out in the wide world alone. At first the thought frightened me, as thoughts of more dogs or even worse danced across my mind, but then I felt a strange sense of excitement creep in to take the fear's place. I was free! I could explore the world and live my own adventures, just like the people in the mice's stories! For the first time in my life, I felt overwhelmingly exhilarated. I didn't know what to do first. Even for a small cow like me, it was glaringly obvious that this was the beginning of a grand adventure!