Cow Crossing

COW CROSSING 

Author: Jim Johnston, jimjohnstonart@gmail.com

I woke up one morning needing to be a cow. I had uncontrollable urges to chew grass, ruminate, and bellow “moo, moo, moo” all day long.

I’ve had some experience in such matters, having watched my best friend Stanley gradually become my best friend Stella. At thirteen, Stella had tiny boobs, and was just ‘one of the girls’, playing field hockey, and posting photos of teenage rock stars on TikTok. She made it look so easy to change from boy to girl, while my own inner cow struggled to emerge.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve yearned to be something other than what I am. Stanley tried to convince me, when his Stella was nothing more than a vague fantasy, but I didn’t share his dream. It wasn’t a girl I needed to be. I could tell, even at a young age, that boys got the longer end of the stick. Yet, despite the spiritual and physical turmoil that accompanied it, I found my urge to be a cow irresistible.

I thought of renaming myself Elsie or Buttercup, but my friends and family, who had always known me as Roger, argued that those names were too feminine for a boy with my sturdy build. So I settled on Brownie, a soft, heavy name that melts into the background. I began to dress exclusively in brown and white, and had a ring put through my nose, which I’ve learned is most uncomfortable in winter.

After school, I’d wander through the nearby meadows, the tinkling of a tiny Hindu bell around my neck echoing down the valley. I’d chew my cud slowly as I gazed skyward, humming sad, old cowboy ballads to myself, and thinking of nothing…nothing at all.

At home, mom made oatmeal cookies with alfalfa sprouts for me, but otherwise left me to my own devices. Dad just shook his head and said, “Cows will be cows,” as his focus returned to the sports page--his only request was no loud mooing after nine P.M. To my parents, I was just another mouth to feed, and I was expected to hold up my end of the bargain without moaning.

“You take after my bull-headed father,” Mom said, smiling faintly and shaking her head. “But you are my son, and I love you no matter what you become.” I was hoping they would take me more seriously, but I settled on acceptance in place of approval. I imagine it’s not easy seeing your only child change species.

My biggest problem was loneliness. Being the only cow in my class, I had no bovine buddies, and I missed being part of a herd. Roaming aimlessly, I yearned for a lasso to rein me in, or a yoke to give me purpose. Stella remained a steadfast friend, but our interests diverged as we grew older, and while she became more of a girl, I became more of a cow, and we had less and less to talk about.

I briefly considered a sex change, hoping to integrate myself. I’d been born a human male, but was now a female cow, and I was often unsure of which way to turn. Slowly, as I realized that life as a humble heifer had its limitations, I began to dream of bigger things. I imagined being a star in a rodeo, a big bucking bull, capable of tossing a full-grown man twenty feet or more, swaying my horned head in jubilation as the crowd roared its approval. I investigated possible surgeons on Google, but came up empty handed.

And then there was the problem of my feet. I tried binding them to resemble cloven hooves, but dividing five into two left me unbalanced, and, despite my increased intake of gelatin, the nails of my delicate digits were never sturdy enough to withstand the wear and tear of the great outdoors. After lengthy arguments with my parents, we settled on a pair of low-rise cowboy boots, made from some synthetic material, which resembles leather, but contains no animal matter whatsoever. I have to draw the line somewhere.

But each time I’d look down at my feet I feel a pang in the place where my udder should have been, and a troubling sense of disconnection would permeate my being. Over time, my discomfort developed into a full-fledged identity crisis, a painful, almost schizophrenic split between the boy-part of me and the cow-part of me. I was on the edge of despair, with no one to turn to. One night, in great anguish, I took too many pills, and ended up in the emergency room, having my stomach pumped. I was hoping for more of a reaction, but as usual, Mom and Dad took it all in stride, leaving me feeling more isolated than ever. Stella

tried her best to console me, but she’d already passed through the most difficult parts of her transition, and besides, she was all girl now, and unable to relate to my deeply troubling bovine predicament.

I joined a support group at school, but the other kids were not overly sympathetic to my plight. Human teenagers can be so cruel. Some teased me openly, and once, in the school cafeteria, a guy from the football team threw a carton of milk at me, and the whole room burst out mooing. Only Fraulein Kauffman, our school psychologist, truly understood my dilemma. She knew how to take the bull by the horns, and steer me in the right direction.

“So tell me, Roger, how long have you felt this cow inside you?” she inquired during our first session. Her faint German accent enthralled me, and her clear green eyes seemed to penetrate my souls.

“It will be three years in December,” I replied, shifting in my chair uncomfortably. I yearned to get down on all fours, ring my bell, and wag my tail.

“I see. And yet despite your many mysterious wanderings, and all the classes you’ve missed, you have managed to maintain excellent academic standing. You have the highest grade point average of any student in your class! You are one very remarkable cow, Roger,” Fraulein Kauffman said, as she peered over her tortoise shell glasses and smiled warmly at me. “Very remarkable, indeed.”

 “I strive to be the best cow I can possibly be,” I answered, bowing my head shyly to one side. But inside, I was beaming, exultant, and I couldn’t be restrained. “Mooooo!,” I sang out, tossing my head from side to side. “Moooooo!”

After a minute or two, not sure of the proper etiquette, I lowered my voice. “But please, Fraulein Kauffman, call me Brownie.”

For a while I was lost in appreciation of myself. ‘One Very Remarkable Cow’ she had called me. I rattled my bell as loudly as I could. That will be the title of my autobiography! I see those words in neon lights, announcing a Broadway musical about me, and I imagine them etched on my gravestone. ‘Brownie: One Very Remarkable Cow’. It’s beautiful, just beautiful.

With trust and perseverance, Fraulein Kauffman helped me realize my full potential as a cow, of which I’d only had an inkling. As my self-esteem increased, I became sought after at school, my parents’ pride and joy, and my own best friend. My Instagram account grew by leaps and bounds. And although I still yearned to be part of a herd, or at least meet another of my species, I began to treasure my solitude, not fear it.

Fraulein Kauffman went back to graduate school, where she earned an advanced degree in veterinary medicine, and became highly acclaimed in her field. We continue to stay in touch—just the occasional Christmas card or birthday email, but it keeps our connection alive. I never could have done it without her.

Through my work with Fraulein Kauffman, I’ve learned to see the animal in others, to notice that we all live in a big ark, floating--a bit lost--on the same open sea. Once this state of bovine enlightenment had been achieved, it allowed me to seek new horizons, to discover other animals within me--my ‘inner menagerie’ she called it. At night, when all is quiet in the world, if I listen carefully, I can hear them roaring inside me. 

THE END