The ancient Stoic philosopher Epictetus advised us not to hold the things we love too closely. We should learn to detach ourselves and prepare for the moment we may have to live without them.
I frequently think of old Epictetus when I’m out with Pancho and Lefty, my two cows. Every winter I fatten two steers in the barnyard, visiting them three times a day to feed, brush and chat with them. When there’s only two animals you can’t help forming a strong attachment to them, an experience that always ends in tears. It would be safer to keep twenty, because a herd of cows visit strictly among themselves and pay little attention to you. Two will soon tire of each other’s company quickly and look eagerly for you as soon as they hear the kitchen door slam. They also learn tricks to keep you at the barn long after you should have returned to other pressing tasks around the farm.
Anyway, it’s always hard when the stock truck comes for them in March. After they’re gone, the silence in the barn is oppressive and my wife says I don’t really come back to life until two new stockers arrive in April. I’ve never been very good at holding these guys at arm’s length.
There’s a spot up on the withers that a cow can’t reach with its tongue. A brush applied to that spot has a hypnotic effect on the animal. Its head drops to the ground, it begins to sway and, if you’re not careful, it transforms into an 1100 pound rolling pin that squishes you against the barn wall. We all know the danger of a mad cow but an affectionate cow can do just as much damage. My toes are flattened and misshapen from years of being stepped on and, like all cattlemen everywhere, I limp.
These are the routine risks that every small producer encounters on a trip to the barn. Pigs flip you upside down in the first rush of good fellowship. Sheep mill around you as if you just scored the winning goal. Even a chicken can be glad to see you. I sometimes wonder if the world’s anxieties might be reduced if we were all required by law to keep at least two chickens, just so we had something to distract ourselves from our own insatiable needs and frets. There’s something about looking after another living thing that takes you out of yourself for a few moments and gives the psyche a rest. And it also makes you more careful not to waste food, especially from animals, because you know the investment of time and emotion that went into their care.
My father, the actor, never went near a barn in his life but he did keep a parrot. Pop was a worrier and a hypochondriac and went into a full blown panic if he couldn’t find the remote for his television. But he loved his Algie and I think that bird helped him make it to 97. (Algie is still going strong today at 35 in the care of my niece.)
We don’t know much about Epictetus apart from his writing. I wonder if he might have been a cattleman, because he had a bad limp, too. All the illustrations we have show him with a crutch, a sign that even he had to learn how to hold his 4-H calf at arm’s length. One emperor kicked him out of Rome. A later one came to visit him and ask him questions about life. A third, Marcus Aurelius, the last of the Five Good Emperors, read every word the philosopher wrote and patterned his life after him. Clearly a man worth listening to.
But the words of the master and all the self-discipline in the world will not stop a lump rising to my throat as I watch the stock trailer carry Pancho and Lefty away for their ‘sleepover’ at Scotty’s up at Grey County Meats.
Just another part of the rich tapestry of life on a small farm.