I can
remember strolling the grounds of my
grandfather's family
farm on a bright Saturday morning, letting the wet
dew drops
seep through the spaces between my young toes. The farm's crops included
strawberries,
apples and even a small amount of
peaches. As for
livestock, there were always twenty to thirty
cows, and a handful of
chickens on hand. The chickens were used for
eggs for the family's consumption, while the cows were mainly sold for their
meat.
I really don't remember much of my grandfather. He, in fact, was my step-grandfather (a fact I didn't learn until after his
death), a tall
lanky man with thick
greasy black hair and a
toothy smile. He was raised on the farm, but later left home to take up the growing career of a
truck driver; a job he stayed at for over 35 years. He was a man from another age, however; he rarely watched television, and believed the only true music was that that could be accompanied by a
banjo and/or a
tambourine.
That Saturday morning, we strolled together out to where the men from town were rounding up the
cattle to be taken away. I wasn't naive about the process; I knew these big dumb
brutes (the cows, not the men, although the description really does fit) were days, if not hours, away from an awful
death. My grandfather and I watched as two of the men waded into the
pen and roped up one of the cows. They pulled her along to the front of the truck, and then herded the rest of the herd into the back of the vehicle. After the had all been loaded, that first cow was then led up the
ramp.
We had
apple-
rhubarb pie. We rode on the
tractor. We played with the
dog. Hours passed.
I was riding the old farm
bicycle around the grounds when the
cattle truck returned just before
dinner. Three men hopped out of the truck; after some chortling with my grandfather, they opened the back of the truck and let out that
solitary cow. I knew it was the same because of the colouring and the ropes. The men talked of
hard liquor and
Euchre games for a few minutes more, then drove off in their
lumbering truck.
Why'd they leave that one cow? Ain't it good for meat? I asked my grandfather.
That there's a
Judas, a
Judas steer, he answered.
He explained that a Judas steer (or just "Judas") is a special member of a herd. The herd usually has one cow or steer that is "
trained" or
calm enough to lead the rest of the cows into the
slaughterhouse without help of human "
encouragement." I can imagine that
if I were a cow, I wouldn't go readily into a building
reeking of death. However, if I saw a trusted
member of my herd going in first, I might be more easily
persuaded. After all of the herd had been led into the slaughterhouse, they would
extract the Judas steer and return it to the farm for
future use. It is most obviously named after
Judas Iscariot, the
apostle of
Jesus Christ that betrayed the "
Son of God" with a simple kiss, revealing Jesus' identity to the awaiting
Roman guards who would arrest him and later
crucify him. These cows could easily see the inside of a slaughterhouse up to a
dozen times before being
killed themselves, unaware which trip in which they would lead their fellow cows to their death would be its
last.
I miss my grandfather, sometimes.