Crazy Cows and Bullshit
You could see the abattoir from my bedroom window. Animals were always escaping. We’d chase after them, clattering behind the slaughtermen, squealing like the fleeing pigs. The sheep were the funniest; running too close together, their fat candyfloss bodies jostling along on liquorice legs. The pigs would hurl themselves around, wriggling out of grasping hands, always managing to stay free the longest. The cows were the worst; they looked crazed, just like Dad’s cousin. Their eyes stretched so wide you could see a perfect circle. I never knew if I felt scared or sorry.
Sometimes a bull got out and then the streets emptied. Doors were locked and faces flattened against windows, eyes squeezed into the meanest of angles. I heard one once. They trapped it inside the dairy at the end of the street. You could hear it charging around, crashing into the milk floats, crates smashing to the floor. It went on for ages. It was great. Rivers of milk ran down the street. They had to shoot it and the milk turned pink.
When the coast was clear my Dad and I would shovel the shit. There was always heaps of it. The cow shit smelt the worst but Dad preferred it to bull shit. He’d had enough of that. The bull shit was left for others. Our bagged manure was pure cow. The first thing to go is your bowels, he said. Fear always strikes them down. And he knew, he was a boxer. He used to spend the whole day on the toilet before a fight. He had to be empty. He told me when you’re in the ring, all you want to do is to sniff it on the other guy.
On the way to school, I would try and sneak a look through the hatch in the slaughterhouse wall. I never got to see much - a few raw cows strung upside down - then the hatch would slam shut and a voice would chase me away. Only stray dogs were allowed to hang around. The smell followed me and nobody wanted to sit next to me.
My Aunty told me I was nearly killed by a bull: ‘You, just a few months old and left outside the newsagents. What your mother was thinking of I’ve no idea. She was in buying fags and there you were screaming your head off. You couldn’t bear to be left. It came thundering around the corner, clipped the side of the pram and you bounced off down the street like a ball. All they could see was your head bobbing up and down in that bashed up pram. When they got to you, you were just sitting laughing. Another inch and that would’ve been it.’
The local paper ran a story with the headline ‘Bull Rushes Baby.’ My father said it was an omen. To survive that meant I’d be able to bounce back from anything. Anytime I got worried he would tell me, ‘You’ve seen a bull off at six months. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
My mother had a different version to my Aunty. Apparently, she’d just been into the newsagents to buy some cigarettes and stopped at the corner to light one. If she hadn’t the bull would’ve been head on.
‘You owe your life to a pack of ten,’ she would tell me.
I’d say,‘Your cigarettes were nearly the death of me.’
She’d smoke on the way to the factory with her workmates. They’d herd off up the street, their smoke swirls drifting into grey clouds; the factory at the end puffing out steam balls, welcoming them with wide open doors. If you listened by a window you could hear the machines. The whirring of the needles as they danced up and down. The manic stitching of seconds, minutes. Years.
Dad lost a fight. He took a punch to the head and went down. It took him three months to get back up. He didn’t like losing, so he stopped boxing and my mother stopped smoking. She said it was her thank you to God. It didn’t stop her dying. The week after she died, someone brought round a bag of fresh meat. There was a card stapled to it.
It read:
‘To you and the kids from all the lads at the Abattoir.’
There was a faint red thumbprint in the corner. You could see every thin contour. It was perfect. Just what a detective would want. I kept it for evidence. Dad said it was veal, a calf. I wouldn’t eat it and was called ungrateful. I said my mother wouldn’t let me eat a baby cow. Dad's fist hit the table and a plate bounced to the floor. The white circle smashed into pieces and we all started crying. I ran upstairs and hid under the covers. My Dad brought me a cheese sandwich and left it by my bed. He patted the blankets and told me everything was going to be alright. ‘You’ve seen a bull off remember.’
I cried myself to sleep and dreamt about cows in the front room, taking over the sofa. They looked happy and peaceful, smoking cigarettes, watching telly and drinking tea.
Page(s) 73-75
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