Painting by Elaine Brown Folgar
But this is Jack's story.
Once upon a time, Jack had two cows: Stud, a bull, laden with sperm, and Bessie, kept for her cream and the cash it brought. But who's to say she wasn't tethered to her stall for the lick of her rasping tongue, which twisted like a flirt when she was milked? Teats that felt like furry catkins on his fingertips. The silk of her flanks on his cheeks. Tears glistening like diamonds.
Had Jack either sensitivity or thought, he'd have realized Bessie was in mourning, her calves sold when they were but two days old to be processed into meat. Instead, he perceived devotion and pined the times he spent without her.
When Jack tried milking his wife, she banished him to the couch. When he suggested she wear a nose ring, she formulated a plan. The day he came home with Bessie inked on his bicep, she called her attorney.
But for the hours away from his beloved, Jack was glad for the distraction of the annual Dairy Council dinner, where he was invited to speak. His talk on waste management went well enough, and then dinner was served—steak tartare for starters, a veal burger on a brioche bun for the main course. It's not that Jack imbibed at the open bar, and it's not that he was prone to hallucinations, but out from the crimson mince of the first course sprang four miniature hooves and a swishing tail. The burger's pink flesh, barely licked by flames, lowed on his first chomp and chew. Long eyelashes caught in his teeth.
Jack looked around at the men, glad-handing and back-slapping, their wives laughing at the bar. Jack tried to shoo away images of Bessie's children on a plate. His shoulders heaved, his heart's chambers swelled. Tears drenched the napkin tucked at his neck. No one noticed him stumble from the room, nor missed him at all.
Stud was sold to a man with soft eyes and a promise. Bessie was freed to the meadow, where she keeps a goodly distance. Jack now wallows in the dark, grows mushrooms and a beard. Somehow, he scrapes by.
