FINNEGAN THE CAT, STEAK AND HAMBURGER - THE TWO HEIFERS

 Finnegan - Our Cheshire Kitty

          Life on the farm aint half bad says Finnegan the cat.  I got me the run of the place, all the measly mice, squirmy squirrels, buxom birds and any other rascally rodent I can creep up on and sink my sharp little fangs and claws into - rip the little buggers to shreds and pick my teeth with their bones.  And, since I do a lot of napping, I have a lot of cozy little nooks I can curl up into and dream about all the tasty little morsels that hang around this place they call Golden Unicorn Farm and why they call it that is beyond the tip of my long sensitive whiskers; I've got eyes as sharp as an eagle's and I aint yet seen a single unicorn around this place.  But then again, I'm a feisty, furry, frisky feline, a real predator and they've most likely heard about my persistent pussy prowess; I'm a tiger in disguise and they're most likely scared of me.  I must be the toughest critter around here on four legs, even the dog cowers and yelps like a baby whenever the heavens start thundering, fireworks go blasting off into the sky and someone dressed in camouflage goes tripping by like Mr. McGoo after a wascally wabbit and fires his rifle.  Yeah, I'm tough, I'm tough, rough and tough like a tom cat should be.  The critters around here don't call me tom - I'm Mr. Tom to them.  The people who live here think that I'm being affectionate with them when I saunter on over, purring my own personal song (should actually put it to music and become a rock star) and rub my body sensually along their legs; they aint figured it out yet; that's the best way to get rid of my winter's hair; sticks like glue to their pants.  Well enough said about me, think it's time for me to find one of my choice beds - ah yeah, under the metal roof on Lenny's studio is one of my favourites - talk to you again some time.

Limousin Feeder Heifers

          My friend Justin Higgs and I bought us a couple of heifers last Monday at the auction.  They're noted for their muscular bodies - not sure about their disposition or brain power but that doesn't matter.  I don't particularly want to be their friend or enroll them later in Cattle University.  Now some people like to be real friendly like with their cows and give them cutesy names like Flossie, Elsie or Cowlick Harry but the names that seems to fit these two the best are Steak and Hamburger.  I imagine a lot of people think I have no feelings and that I'm cruel to have these sort of thoughts; I only really care about how good they will smell roasting on a bar-b-q and then slapped down on my dinner plate, alongside a baked potatoe and some succulent greens - maybe wash it all back with an ice cold beer.  A person can't get all emotional and too attached but I, and I expect Justin will be the same, will treat them with respect and look after all their needs while we have them for a short time before they head on off to the slaughter house and come back home gift wrapped in brown paper.  I know, I know, I think it's somewhat sad and savage as well, but I have a couple of teeth sharp as a wild animal's k-nines, jaws of steel and a taste for blood (face it, mankind is the meanest predator this Earth has ever seen - bar nonbe - not even the dinosaurs) and I'm not proud to be that way, but like it or not, I am.  The way I see it, I've eaten one hell of a lot of beef during my almost 72 years and whether I have the power to do the critters in myself or the slaughter house has the honors; it's just something that will happen - not quite like going to the local supermarket and checking out all the packaged beef through a clear cellophane wrapper, politely saying please and thank you to the butcher; the end result is the same.

          I grew up in Vancouver-town; a great huge city busting at the seams and I made an unusual great deal of money living the city way; slabs of beef, cooked to perfection by chefs with high culinary skills, were set before me in lavish manners many times, but fortunately, part of those years touched me in a country style of living and I discovered, now that I'm residing in the country, sort of semi-wilderness country, I'm more in touch with reality, quite possibly more in tune with my actual soul.  The paper chase has got nothing on trying to chase a couple of Limousin  heifers into the barn.  Here in the country, one has to face the weather conditions, feel the heart-beat of the land and its critters, be in sympathy with one's surroundings and appreciate whatever abundance it affords without destroying everything - it's a give/take situation but should never be a love/hate situation.  I don't just put in time, work my nine to five and pick up a paycheque, I have to physically maintain a constant appreciation of Mother Nature - her nutrients are my own.  That's not to say the annoying ding of a cash register isn't part of my repertoire, it's just that here, it's more of a hands-on experience.  Like Finnegan the cat; killing is part of the process of staying alive and like it or not, I have to respect that, and I find, I am no different - cheers, eh!