The dungheap

The ancient cow listlessly lipped scraps of hay by the barn. Well into her second childhood, she was long in tooth and horn. But she had given the best years of her life to the family tucked inside the farmhouse. She helped raise two generations of children. The family couldn’t bring themselves to get rid of her. After all, she had given them her life. They couldn’t bring themselves to send her to the boneyard, or the stockyard either. She was mostly skin and bone, not much there left to eat. Perhaps some stew bones and something for the dog. As summer drew to an end, you could see the old cow struggled with each step. The arthritis had settled into her hips. She could no longer navigate the steep hill to the richer pastures. Thinking this was her last year, they brushed her they stroked her petted her gave her treats. Apples and small carrots from tiny hands, a gift more than the world itself. Some mornings they found her trying to navigate the dungheap. As the days grow colder the dungheap grew taller. They thought perhaps she had long since left her second childhood behind, and was moving into the third age. She kept negotiating that dungheap until she forged a trail to the top. Mornings they would find her at the top of her domain, overlooking the yard, lying in the steaming dung. She wasn’t such a dumb cow after all. She knew the score. There was warmth in that dungheap and it lasted the whole night long. Soon enough, she was joined by the young heifers wanting in on the action.  Mornings the farmer would find them perched like enormous ravens on top of the dung heap.