Cow: (n) the mature female of a bovine animal
Cow is a word. Cow is a concept. Cow is a picture.
Cow is an animal. Cow is a creature. Cows live on farms.
A farm is a concept. It is also a word.
Cows hang out in barns. Barns have hay. It piles up in lofts.
Cows give milk. Milk makes cheese.
Cheese gives us something on our burger so the bacon sticks and doesn’t slide off.
Cows sometimes have a cottage where they make cheese. Cows have udders. These are ‘udderly’ large nipples.
We are not allowed to say ‘nipples,’ at least, not without giggling.
But you see, all of these are antiseptic visions of a cow. They are representations. They are promotable units which can be pandered off to the masses.
If you were actually to go to a farm which has a barn wherein dwells a cow, you would learn very quickly that they smell bad. (Either the barn or the cow—maybe even the farm.) It’s not the cow’s fault. Hygiene is not a primary concern. Crevices are difficult to reach.
Cows also chew their cud, which once again, sounds reasonably harmless unless you’re watching them swish it around in their mouths like some sort of gooey, slimy hockey puck.
Watching cows being milked may cure you of your desire for dairy.
Trying to communicate with a cow will certainly give you a parallel to parenting.
And note—a cow’s constant friends are hundreds of flies, which blow them continually, and not in a pleasant way.
We also acknowledge that cows make beef products like steak and hamburger. But sometimes it’s best to show up to the party a little bit late so you don’t have to view what goes into arranging the decorations.
I can continue to eat hamburger as long as I don’t have to think about cows. Matter of fact, I have thought about cows just about as much as I wish or would ever want to think about again.
If you want to contemplate cows more, you should probably Google them, or risk going out into the countryside and carefully walking through the pasture to interview one.