Where’s the Beef?
by Stephanie Suesan Smith, Ph.D.
I never thought I would be glad to see a buzzard. Maybe he is circling over that lost cow. That cow plows through the fences and gets in the garden all the time. I just can’t string the wire as tight as Daddy used to. Before the wreck that killed Mom and trashed Daddy’s legs and disposition. I am not near the farmer Daddy was. I guess I am as much of one as we have, though.
I know I shouldn’t hope that cow is dead, because we need her for milk and her calves for meat. Still, I sure have come to hate that cow. As soon as I get through this thicket, I can see what that buzzard has his eye on.
It is our cow, but it didn’t up and die the way I hoped. No, two fellows are standing over her butchering her out with a knife. You don’t see that every day, even in these parts. What is that on the back of that guy’s shirt? PRISONER? Now what am I going to do?
I hear hounds baying. Maybe if I point this shotgun at them and tell them to stay put, I can get the reward money.
“You, freeze now! Sheriff, here. I claim the reward, they killed my cow.”
The Sheriff changed course and laughed. “You men broke out and got caught by a fifteen year old girl. Some desperados!”
“Did you find the cow?” he demanded.
“Yes, Daddy, our cash cow.”
(I live on 14 acres with my dogs. My neighbor’s cows sometimes intrude on us, but are quickly sent back on their side of the barbed wire by my red heeler. I write nonfiction on pretty much anything or anyone that catches my interest.)