I lean against a metal post, munching on my newly found dessert, the Squiggle top biscuit. Farmers toss offhanded banter around, recounting how one of them drank
too much whiskey last night while the another offers me
vodka with my cookie. Smiles crinkle and lines of tanned skin fold over on
their necks as they handle the cattle and the iron. No one acknowledges the
constant drone of cows or the tearing of grass or the yelping of dogs chasing cars down the street. Nothing at all would indicate obscurity, except for the fact
that the veterinarian's hand is elbow deep in the side of a cow, feeling around for some
juicy internal organs. I just eat my cookie and laugh as the cow gut squelches and the veterinarian joins the farmer's chatter about the wine auction or The Economist or what-have-you.
I was wearing my loose and hardy work pants with my hiking boots, perfectly prepared for my
job as the gate handler. This allowed me to watch each surgery in magnified detail as I stared over his shoulder. It soon became clear why farmers and veterinarians alike have a morbid streak to their humor. After the cow was prepared for surgery in the back of the chute, it was herded forward and trapped in the front part of the cute. My first job was to catch the gate as it swung open and my second job was to close it when the surgery was finished. If you can’t picture it, click here.
The veterinarian would make a five inch incision in the cow, just in front of her pelvis and in behind where one would imagine the stomach to
be. At first, it was a tad shocking to see flesh so casually sliced open,
but after the second cow, it became routine. Then the veterinarian would push his hand through
the cutaneous fat and three different layers of muscle, which were visibly
pulsating with blood. This is the point at which the search began. He would push his hand into the abdomnimal cavity of the cow until his elbow was lost, laughing all the while, and move his hand around in search
of the ovaries. After finding the ovaries, he pulled them out through the
incision, operated on them, then stapled the cow back up.
This is where my job came in again. I closed the gate so that the cow
could not jump out of the chute. And voilà! On to the next cow.
The bizzarest thing about this whole endeavor was how organized it was.
One would assume that searching through cow guts for a tiny little organ would
be difficult, but he made it look easy. His team knew their jobs, and they knew
their jobs well. Each person was focused and methodical on even the most menial
tasks, shaving and sanitizing in perfect unison. There were even bright blue painted markers on the cement, indicating the orientation of the table's legs so that the veterinarian could best access his gear. Each of his supplies were such a height that the cow door could swing over them without knocking them over, but he could still reach them from his position. Needless to say, I was quite proud to become a knut in this well oiled machine.
Lunch was a classic affair in which everyone sat down and pulled out a
cigarette. We all sat quietly together and watched the smoke curl and listened
to the rain patter down on the metal roof. I leaned back in my chair and closed
my eyes to think about whether I should get up to get another Squiggle before we started on the cows again.