Issue link: https://maltatoday.uberflip.com/i/1091272
24 maltatoday | SUNDAY • 10 MARCH 2019 OPINION Raphael Vassallo The cows that don't laugh WHEN I was young, it seemed that life was so… um… sinister. All the birds in the trees, for instance: for some reason, they always seemed to keep watching me (while singing so joyfully, merrily, playfully, etc). It kind of gave me the creeps… especially when I occasion- ally caught the little perverts peeking through the bathroom window. Ah, but then they sent me away, to teach me how to be logical, practical, sensible, and all that sort of stuff (note: I trust you can all appreciate, from my articles, just how suc- cessful their efforts were). And while I was incarcerated in this social re-engineering facility called 'school' for around 10 years… they also shot all the birds and cut down all the trees. So I eventually emerged to find that everything is much more… peaceful now. At last, I can take a dump without feel- ing 'watched'… Hang on, that's not at all what I wanted to write about. Give me a sec while I switch off the radio. There, much better. Now: where was I? Ah yes, school. I went to one, you know. And while I wasn't exactly what you'd call an extrovert, aged nine or therea- bouts, I still managed to make a couple of schoolfriends while I was there. One was named 'Esme', and the other, 'Mildred'… Huh? No, it wasn't a co-ed school. (This was late 1970s/ early 80s, for crying out loud). But Esme and Mildred weren't schoolchildren, either. They were cows. There was a dairy farm right next to the school 'sports pavilion' (translation: dusty football pitch). And Esme and Mildred would oc- casionally pop their heads up over the boundary wall, chew- ing cud with that look of deep, intense contemplation, while we were doing P.E. For some reason, I remember Mildred wearing a hat with a flower in it, and Esme peering through half-moon reading glasses. But that might be be- cause The Magic Roundabout was still on TV at the time. In any case: I don't remember either of them ever look- ing particularly unhealthy or unhappy… or even particularly dirty. They seemed to have plenty of room to roam around in, and bore no visible marks of neglect or mistreatment. Now: I don't want to make the usual mistake of over- romanticising my childhood memories (a bit late for that now, you might be thinking). Bear in mind I was nine when I met Esme and Mildred. I was too young to recognise any hint of trauma or quiet desper- ation in the facial expression of a dairy cow. They seemed quite content to me; but for all I knew, their actual lives may have been a living hell. And by 'plenty of room to roam', I don't mean herds of happy, laughing cows prancing about on lush, sweeping mead- ows somewhere in the Swiss Alps, with pig-tailed milkmaids yodelling away in the back- ground. This wasn't a Milka ad. It was more like a large-ish yard, in which the cows had a little space in which to shuffle through mountains of their own shit. (There was certainly nothing 'romantic' about the smell, let me tell you…). But still. From my own per- spective, looking down on that sight from behind the barred classrooms windows during a Maths or Chemistry lesson… it looked like a small, smelly corner of paradise. In any case: I found myself thinking of Esme and Mildred again this week, after all these years, while ordering a sirloin steak (medium rare) at the Bar & Grill down the road. What ever became of them in the end, I wondered? I guess we'll never know… But in case you're wondering, what actually reminded me of them was a news story about a surprise Veterinary Direc- torate inspection of a Fgura dairy farm this week, following complaints by animal rights activists. You may have already seen the pictures… if not, these snippets should give you a rough idea: "cows and goats living in less than ideal condi- tions in overcrowded spaces and locked in rooms with no natural light."; "a cow with its