Cows Be Gone

It started in the 1990s, almost as a joke, a hamburger made out of plants. “Really, a vegetable burger? Who would eat such a thing,” asked most people. The years rolled by, efforts were made to better the vegetarian option and those improvements came in great strides.

The watershed moment came in 2024. It became widely regarded that the non-beef burgers were, surprisingly, not only delicious, but just too dang good to ignore. They were tastier and more nutritious than the old-fashioned burgers made from cows. The new variety of burgers were also kinder to the environment. These one-time curiosities had been elevated from a mere alternative to a preferred choice.

The paradigm shift didn’t happen straight away, to be sure. Some folks, those who had grown up on bovine burgers their entire lives, were not interested in such silliness as a vegetarian hamburger. A generation went by and the youths, not grown up on that solitary mindset, stopped buying beef patties. As if they were just biding their time until they controlled the majority of economic activity, then almost entirely across the board, this beef-free generation stopped buying actual beef. This would seem to be a relief to the unsuspecting cow, but wait, there’s more.

The price of beef plummeted to where it was no longer even possible to break even raising these animals on a ranch. Ranchers changed out to farmers setting their efforts instead to soybean, corn and assorted row crops. Even milk was no longer a profitable product. With so many non-dairy milk alternatives the market share for actual ‘cow juice’ gave away and never leveled off.

Then there was the leather industry. So many years of taking flack for employing animal parts for a capitalistic end had been guilt-tripped into making changes. The market for leather could no longer hold it’s own. With that ‘coup de gras’ the fate of the cow was sealed. 

Their numbers did more than dwindle. After only a single generation they had became the first domesticated animal to end up on the Endangered Species list. They became a rare sighting even driving through the vast open lands through Interstate 5 in California. A conservancy group eventually purchased the remaining 100 cows known to exist. They shipped the gentle lumbering beasts to Santa Catalina Island, one of the Channel Islands off the coast of Southern California. Heck, it worked for the bison, the board of the non-profit reasoned, preserving the cows should be an easy victory.

Cows and bison are different kinds of animals once introduced into the wild, even the ‘controlled wild,’ so it was found out. The bison, for example, was capable of living sustainably once people simply stopped shooting them and hacking them apart for various means. They could live well enough alone if they would just be left alone. Bison were imported to the island in the 1920s. The herd grew and their numbers became stable. Fact is, they flourished. So well did the herd that their numbers were occasionally pared down and repatriated to the mainland. The cow, however, had spent too long in captivity. Living even in the relative congenial wilds of the island, it turned out the cows experienced high anxiety. They couldn’t mate, or wouldn’t. It didn’t matter the reason, their dwindling continued. Yes, bulls were included in their numbers, but there weren’t any couplings. They wouldn’t and flat out stopped. Even the bulls were done. Or they were just too taken with the constant beautiful ocean view to consider the alluring curves of their fairer partners.

Predictably, there was never any overwhelming alarm when it became clear they would soon be extinct. After so many years and generations demonizing the poor unaware beast, what with its troubling off-gassing of methane and its unwitting contributions to global climate change, its required occupation of so many millions of square miles of earth just to be raised, killed and eaten, or turned into fashionable handbags. The newest generation had no more emotional connection to saving such a creature than if it were a cockroach skittering out from underneath a refrigerator. A nuisance. No more concern that if they were watching fossil-fuel vehicles lose market share to electric vehicles. ‘Hey, you can’t fight technology’ was the pertinent slogan of the time. So they didn’t, nobody did.

It was decided by consensus that the final ten beasts were finally to be slaughtered and barbecued in one final fatal fantastic outing. Entertainment included outdoor movies and live music, an all-day menu of barbecue entrees from breakfast through late into the night, a very fun day for the participants. The overriding sentiment from the evening was that they weren’t as good as fake beef, but they were good enough to eat. Until now, that is, when there were finally none left to eat.

[Loosely inspired by Jakub Rozalsi’s painting, ‘The Last Mermaid of the Northern Seas’. (https://twitter.com/mr_werewolf_art/status/1128983387535040512?s=20.) It got me thinking through a few ‘what if’ extinction-related scenarios. -klem]

Private Cassidy

1945, U.S. Army base in post-World War II England

Emmett was a good man. He was also a good soldier, but a better man than soldier. If there was to be an admonishment laid unto him it might be that he sometimes lacked military diligence, as evidenced here.

He had two days off duty, no time to waste, he rightly concluded. He immediately went to the barracks to write a letter home, as he did weekly to his parents. He’d been in England for eight months. He’d missed out on the fighting leading up to the culmination of World War II in Europe, not that he minded missing out. But was now obligated to contend with the mess that remained, the destruction and clean up.

It was late afternoon when he finished the letter and hustled out to the on-base postal unit. About the only thing he liked about the Army was the free postage.

He passed the letter forward unsealed, as required for censoring purposes. The army had to make sure no military secrets were being revealed, not only by Cassidy but all military personnel. Four weeks later it would arrive at his parent’s home in Los Angeles. Exiting from the postal unit he bumped into a pal.

“Emmett, how you been,” he was asked.

“I’ve been well, except for all these military chores that have seemingly no end. Where’re you going in such a hurry,” he replied.

“Mess hall, they’re serving corned beef and cabbage tonight,” he exclaimed.

“Really,” asked Emmett incredulously.

“No, shit on a shingle like always, but the sooner I eat, that’s one less chore. Join me,” he requested smiling.

“With a positive attitude like that I can’t resist,” and they were off to supper where they dined inelegantly, though abundantly, on toast laden with some kind of meat-based compote. Concluding the meal they advanced to the hooch-related portion of the evening seeking to pleasantly pass the evening with a few drinks.

“Hey, if you want, a friend mailed me a bottle of Southern Comfort. You want a nip,” asked his pal. Cassidy had never ventured into this hard stuff before. These two were but wee lads having barely attained 20 years and were delightfully innocent in such things. An hour passed, as did the entire bottle. With their equilibrium waning they mustered the fortitude to walk to the local pub.

There was one other thing Private Cassidy enjoyed about serving his country in England. It’s proximity to Ireland. He had an everlasting devotion to the country of his heritage, a few generations removed. This proximity also allowed for enhanced Guinness availability at the local pubs, the fabled Irish brew, where it was served up exactly as intended. Not chilled, simply a shade below room temperature.

A number of war veterans were departing from Europe and returning to the United States, their tours of duty gallantly completed. Incoming batches of new soldiers were rotating in. The fighting had ended, but security patrols were needed to maintain the peace, at least, what peace that can be attained after having destroyed so much of the western world. The occupied territories had succumbed to overwhelming might and it would be made sure to stay that way with a good number of soldiers patrolling the streets.

“If you’ll please allow me the honor of reciprocating your generosity, it would be my pleasure to buy this round,” said Emmett. So graciously was this offered that the other soldier knew it would have been futile, and unseemly, were he to not accept. The two soldiers finished pint number one, now sloshing around in dangerous bellies full of the potent Southern Comfort, then progressed deeper into the mission.

The thing about early dining is that there was sure to be a virtually endless stream of troops working their way to the pub after their meal. Before two hours passed they’d both lost count of their pints, not that they’d planned to count. They were beyond tipsy because the flow of pints had been strong, plus, of course, the volatile mixture with the previously imbibed liquor. To say they were drunk would be to undersell their true state of being.

Emmett was a popular fellow amongst his peers. He had many visitors see his ripening condition then contribute with another pint. After three hours in the pub they were three sheets to the wind and new troops were still arriving. When they finally did leave it was not without a few parting shots of whiskey. They were not needed, nor were they declined.

The motor skills of these two proved elusive by now. Emmett tried to explain that he was merely tired and wanted to rest. The two drinking buddies, in a symbiotic gesture, both lapsed from consciousness. With that a few colleagues assisted them out the door under the guise of returning them to their bunks. 

The thing about being popular and in an ever buoyant mood, as was Cassidy, is that one is not insulated from pranking. Commingle that with his jovial demeanor, he had become a magnet for fun and pleasant conversation. If you needed a mood boost, you’d found your elixir with this one. Only tonight, he would not remember any of it.

On account of the vacated motor skills a pair of soldiers grabbed each man under the armpits and assisted their forward progress rerouting them to the airfield. With all the troop activity of late there were transport planes coming and going every hour.

It was nearly noon when Cassidy awakened. With the sun in his face he stretched himself awake on a bench adjacent to the airfield. Getting to his feet was no small task, but he was a battler and did succeed. Feeling rugged and ruffled, he tucked in his shirt, brushed his hair back with his hands and got underway, one foot in front of the other concentrating to make it so. His head raged with headache, but he was a robust 20 years and knew himself to be unstoppable, as did most young men that age. But just for good measure he promised to give up Southern Comfort, a promise for which he felt passionately absolute. Anything to avoid a recurrence of the pain currently dominating his head, he rightly reasoned. He also promised to give up beer. This, though, he had no intent to actually carry through, but thought it best to at least make the offer to whoever may be listening in. He would have also pretended to swear off whiskey, but that was long forgotten and thus not regretted.

He made his way to the mess hall expecting pancakes with plenty of syrup chased by plenty of coffee. This, however, would offer the first inclination something was awry.

“Where the hell are the pancakes,” he said in exaggerated outrage to the cook he didn’t recognize.

“Pancakes, where the hell were you four hours ago, private? It’s lunch time,” replied the cook to the new soldier. So shit on a shingle it was, again, with the same meat-based compote.

He retired to his regular mess tent quadrant expecting to find his chum from the night before. He wanted to commiserate and piece together the missing gaps, as they were admittedly enormous. But that’s not who joined him.

“Howdy private, you new here,” asked a stranger putting down his tin dining tray of grub along with a few other soldiers just now sitting down for lunch.

“New, no, I’m almost a year on base. Who’re you,” was Cassidy’s retort.

“All due respect soldier, I’ve also been here a year and I’ve never seen you.”

Cassidy looked around the table and was met with a cadre of strange faces. He recognized none of them, yet he knew most of the people on base. During any meal he could walk through the mess tent and see two or three people at every table he knew by name. Here, though, he knew nobody, names or faces.

“Who are you guys,” he asked finally starting to grasp the idea that something had gone wrong in the night.

“Maybe the question is, who are you,” countered the soldier with a broad smile taking a big bite of his shingle. He, too, was realizing something was amiss, but it wasn’t his problem. Faces from the neighboring tables were now looking in sensing something to be afoul. The depth of the circumstances had started to take root.

“By any chance, is this England,” he hoped.

“England!? You’re in France, soldier,” setting off a wave of laughter.

The beauty of the situation unfolded in devastating fashion. He’d been pranked, masterfully so. Beaten but not defeated. He wasn’t bitter, that just wasn’t his nature. Good humor was his baseline, but it would take a moment to overcome the surprise before its flow resumed.

He put down his knife and fork, eyes open wide, the realization of his circumstances, then acceptance, and very slowly an inchoate smile made its appearance. Emmett was soon laughing loudly, head turned up to allow the belly laughs free reign. He’d embraced his situation. His fellow diners were staring at him, then each other.

“Private, you OK,” asked his tablemate.

“You guys want to hear something good? I fell asleep at my base in England last night, and today, I woke up in France. How did that happen,” he queried before laughing again.

The whole table was laughing with him now, a good and jovial uproar. The soldiers from the neighboring tables had come over and Cassidy was confidently holding court recounting what pieces of the prior night he could recall, then guessing to fill in the gaps. This gregarious fellow arrived knowing nobody and within 30 minutes was one of the most popular soldiers on base. Such was his nature. Besides, what’s a little sightseeing between duty shifts.

He’d manage to talk someone into allowing him to deadhead an airplane back to England. But really, no hurry, he wasn’t due back until tomorrow evening.

[Inspired by my pal’s dad, Mr. Cassidy. I’d heard the story years ago and the details, as I partially remembered, got garbled over the passing years. I’d recently sought clarification after completing my draft above, then discovered that my brain had gotten too deep in embellishment.

Truth: On VE-Day or VJ-Day, it’s not remembered which, Mr. Cassidy was based in San Francisco with the Navy. A local liquor store was celebrating the end of the war and told the two seamen, Mr. Cassidy and his friend, they could have whatever they wanted at no charge. He accepted a bottle of Southern Comfort. The next day he woke up in San Diego and had no recollection of how he got there. Peace to you, Mr. Cassidy (1925-2006). Anyone fortunate enough to have met you could consider their life having been improved because of it. -klem]