Farmers Do Not Love Their Cows

I apologize that the title of this blog sounds hateful. I can assure you I don’t have farmers. For 2 years of my life, my family had our own farm. My best friend in university’s family had a beef farm, and for two years, my hairdresser and her husband had a beef farm. I don’t hate farmers in the least. But here is an argument I was part of this week.

Now, normally, I’m not such a vocal person. I’m not the kind of person who just looks for a fight or who believes everyone should think the same way I do. In fact, because of my Christian beliefs, I believe that God has given everyone the gift of free choice, and so I am not someone to take that away. Of course this gets bordered when it inflicts pain on others, but that’s a whole other topic. The fact is, in Exodus, God gave permission to eat certain animals, one of them being cows. So if you want to eat beef, I may not agree with it, but you have total right to do that. So that’s not where this argument is coming from.

What I saw this week was a picture of an almost frozen calf in a farmer’s truck. This is a typical appearance. In my two years of farming, we were up in the middle of the night to help our animals sometimes. I get the work it takes. I see the dedication farmers have. But the caption of the farmer is how much they cared/loved their cows. That’s where I had a problem.

Now, this world has problems enough with understanding what love really is. All too often we see people throwing around the “love” word without really meaning it. People date people and still keep their own needs above their partners. People get married, and stop caring for each other. This is an awful view of love. There are so many terrible views of love. One of the pure views of love that are left in the world is when I look at mothers who truly love their children. They will do anything to protect them and give them the best lives possible. That’s what love should be. Fighting for the one you love, willing to die for that person, that’s love.

Now, I know we are talking about animals and not humans, and many people do not consider them on the same level, so that’s fine. Let’s go with that. But love, in no sense of any manner, means killing the thing you love. Think of a child’s favourite toy, or an adult’s favourite car. You love that toy/car. If that object were to “die”, you would be incredibly upset and angry. These objects aren’t even alive. Yet the cows are. (This also goes for pigs/sheep/chickens, etc…)

So these ALIVE things that farmers are claiming they “love” are raised to be killed. Does that still seem like love to you? Is it caring to kill them?

I had someone tell me that ranchers and farmers are different. That’s cool. I can see they are different. That’s not a big deal to me. The ranchers say they are animal rights activists and they do what they can to give the cows the best lives they can. Well, although it does seem like a very nice gesture to give an animal the best life possible for their short lives, do you think they would call it a “good life” to live for a couple years then be killed? Would you call it a “good life” if you were raised to the age of 2 or 18 (2 year old cow = 18 years as a human) to know you would be placed with a bullet between your eyes and then cut apart for others to eat? Would you call that loving? Is that caring? Knowing you were only born to be food? I don’t think so.

I think there is such a disconnect in this world! It’s crazy! If you are willing to put all that care into an animal, taking a cow into your home to warm them up, saying that you “love” them, well, I will agree you are acting that way. But why do you stop loving them? Why does it change from this seemingly “love” feeling to a feeling of “get on my plate! Die!” Is that how you feel about your dog? Is that how you feel about your cat? Is that how you feel about your children? They’re only worth loving for so long before you get rid of them and don’t care what happens to them?

Some of you may be wondering why I have such a big deal over a simple word. But here’s the reason, people are not owning what actually happens. Sure, the cow may have a “good life” before its death date. But here’s what happens to this “beloved animal” on it’s death date. It gets taken on a usually overloaded cow trailer where they are not given water or anything of substance on the way to slaughter. Once they get to the slaughterhouse, they become terribly frightened. They hear other cows expressing their fright and just as a dog has amazing senses in the personality of humans, cows are no different. They can sense fear and know something is wrong. The “beloved” creatures are as scared as a child in the dark except darkness is easy to fix, death is not. So not only are they unloaded to this terrible place, many people abuse these animals while they are still alive, fighting with creatures who are only scared and reacting as such. Do you go in and punish your child for having a nightmare? These cows are LIVING their nightmare and being punished for it.

When the time comes to be killed, a bullet is put between their eyes. Now, according to government regulations, it’s ok if they’re not killed by that bullet as long as they are stunned and unable to move. Now, I don’t know about you, but it’s almost like a totally functioning person in a coma. These people, when out of the coma, are able to tell you things that people said because they were totally there, just not in control of their body. That’s how these cows are except they can’t tell you what people are saying, but they can tell you about the hooks that were painfully shoved through their legs. Would you like to be alive with hooks piercing your body? I’m going to guess not. Of course, the hook is not enough to kill the cow. So the next step is being sliced open down the middle of their bodies and through their neck. Mmm. What an awesome feeling while you’re still alive. So humane. Such a “loved” and “cared about” animal, right?

So here’s the thing. If you can accept what you do, and you have no problem saying cows are just money to you, that you don’t actually love them and don’t care about the violence you put them through, then by all means that’s at least not hypocritical. Again, I don’t agree with it and think it speaks volumes about the kind of person you are, but I at least appreciate the honesty. But if you advertise to the world that you are such a caring and loving person to these animals, you are so hypocritical and maybe even lying to yourself! I’m asking farmers and ranchers to take responsibility for their actions. You’re not really an animal rights activist when you’re still sending them to a bitter death. So that’s the part I have a problem with. Accept the realities of your job. Don’t just pretend that you’re doing something good for them because for all the good you did before, I guarantee the cows would choose a little less cozy life in exchange for keeping their lives. Nobody wants to die, not even animals. They are alive, they have thoughts, they are just unable to communicate to us the way we need to understand. So start thinking and accept what the truth is. That’s it. If you choose to continue to eat meat, like I said, that’s your choice. But know where that meat is coming from and what that animal is going through to get to your stomach when the world over knows a vegetarian/vegan diet is a way to thrive. You don’t need meat, you don’t need dairy products. But make your choice while being educated and not hiding the truth.

Know the truth, own your choice.

My Rib is Injured… Again!

Several summers ago, I got sick. The worst part of getting sick for me is always this nasty cough that I get. This particular summer, the cough was so bad that I heard a “snap” following a hard cough. I didn’t notice anything at first though I had a huge feeling that something was terribly wrong. It wasn’t until later that I figured it out.

I jumped in my father’s truck that he had let me borrow while working away. And as soon as I had jumped up into the seat, I felt it. It was a tight feeling at first, but then quickly developed into a bad pain. I could barely turn the steering wheel. In the short 5 minute drive to the trailer I was renting, I knew I had to call my mother to come drive me to the hospital. I had to wait a fair time for her as I was about 45 minutes away, but she quickly came and took me to the hospital.

The hospital was about another 30 minutes from where I was, and the wait at the hospital was about 2 hours. The problem was, by the time I was registered and sitting in the waiting room, I was having a hard time breathing. All I can remember is intense pain and focussing on low and shallow breaths.

We waited for awhile until my mother decided to check where we were on the list, only to find out that we had been bumped down rather than up and the wait from that point was longer than 2 hours. It hurts to breathe but I’m not a serious case? My mother was mad to say the least.

We hopped in the car, and headed to the next hospital an hour away. It was a shorter time than I would have had to wait at the first hospital, and this hospital took me in right away. The only problem was, I had popped a rib muscle, which the doctor promptly told me hurts as much as breaking a rib (crazy pain), and there was nothing they could do except give me Tylenol 3.

Now some people I knew would have gone crazy over Tylenol 3. My mother had a mini freak-out session about how I might become addicted to it, but after telling her everything would be fine, I got my prescription and was on my way.

It was a painful summer. The T3s didn’t touch the pain hardly at all. I always walked around with one hand putting pressure on that rib area. It was awful. Nothing but time was able to heal that wound.

Once again, I was sick a few weeks ago and the cough has mostly gone but not completely. I know my body has suffered a little more than normal (didn’t help when my chiropractor asked what happened except I had been doing nothing but sleeping and sitting on the couch, trying to get better), but my body still seemed in decent shape. I worked out this week and everything seemed good.

Last night was a chest workout, and even though I warmed up and stretched, in the very first exercise (bench press), my rib started to hurt. I can’t remember if it is the same side or not, but I’m pretty sure I popped a stupid rib muscle again. It hurts so bad and I have to put pressure on the area to even try to take a deep breath. My abs are also starting to hurt because of the way I have to modify my body when I need to cough. It’s miserable.

I had just gotten well enough to start back in the gym and this is what happens! Ah!

To be honest, I wasn’t going to complete my workout last night because of the pain. But as I sat in the locker room, looking at my open locker as I was going to change, I got mad, closed and locked my locker, and went out and did the incline dumbbell press. I’m pretty sure it was a very dumb idea. I’m pretty sure I made it worse. I had written down to do 4 sets of 12, but after 3 sets, I knew I was being ridiculous. I shouldn’t be mad, although it was hard to not at least be disappointed.

So here I am with heat packs and taking it easy. I would much rather be in the gym but I’ve done my damage and I should know better. Injuries are something to take serious and it’s very important to know when to quit. So learn from my mistake and save yourself some pain. I’m all about lifting heavy and “sucking-it-up” in most situations, but I felt the pain and knew I should have quit. Next time, I will.

I’m About to do This My 27th Time and I Still Don’t Like It!

Doing something 27 times that you don’t even like seems crazy, doesn’t it? That’s because it is! Especially considering I haven’t hit my 27th birthday yet! And you would have total rights to call me crazy, if it had all been in my control. You see, these 27 same events spanned over my lifetime, starting from my newborn year. These 27 events are the amount of times I’ve moved. And yes, the 27th time is about to happen in less than a week. And no, I’ve never learned to enjoy it. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I quite detest it.

I’ll take you on a little history ride since it’s the only thing that seems to make sense to me. Whenever I look back on my life, I’m only able to recall the years and ages that things happened because of where I lived or what grade/school I was in at the time. My life has been compartmentalized in my mind because there are so many things involved that it only made sense to tie them to the place I was since those are the smallest divisions I could make. So here we go!

When I was born, my mother took me “home”. Now I call this place home because it was the first place I had known as home and we still own this house today. My mother in fact has done many amazing renovations to it (magazine-worthy kitchen) and is living there now. At the time I was born, my grandparents (her parents) were living there and so she herself went “home”.

Very shortly after, my father had arranged an apartment for us to live in. This was about an hour away from “home”, but it was my mother and father’s first home together. We didn’t stay here incredibly long as my father was looking for a permanent house.

My father did in fact find a permanent house of which he still lives in today. Of course he has done renovations to his house as well, but he is situated on a nice hill where you can eat your supper, look out and see the city lights twinkle in the night. Great location, and I distinctly remember having a blue sign on top of my bedroom door with my name followed by the word AVE. My room was named after me!

Things did not go so well between my father and mother, and after a couple years, my mother went “home”. I can remember my father visiting us sometimes, but they were unable to patch their relationship. By this time, my sister had entered the world and she was a very sick baby. My grandmother and my mother would take turns driving, walking, rocking, etc… all night long because she would cry and cry. My parents of course headed to divorce.

Not too too much later, my father met the man that would become my step-father. This of course meant that we would not leave the town we lived in, but we would relocate to his place. As convenient as it was to go to his place, I loved being able to stay in my hometown. Of course I wished my father and my mother would get back together, but after some hateful months, my step-father did become my friend. The best part about the town is that my family was where. My dad’s parents, his brothers and sister with their families which meant my cousins and I all went to the same school. My mom’s parents were obviously still there. Basically my family was all there except my dad. And I looked forward to the weekends I had with him.

After several years of being “home”, we had to leave my family behind, the only school I had ever known, the closeness I had grown up with (to this point). I was sad, there’s no denying it. We moved roughly 2 1/2 hours away into a rental farmhouse (no barns but lots of land). The house itself was pretty nice, and we were so far in the country that instead of a school bus picking you up, there was a man with a boat of a car that made several trips picking up students along the way. Talk about interesting! I can even remember a lady with baked goods coming to our door as she did once a week to sell her baked items. Talk about country living at it’s best! I made friends fairly easily here, although I missed “home” very much. The reason for this move was due to my step father’s job relocation as he drove truck at the time and had switched trucking companies.

After a year, it was time to leave again. Again my step father was getting closer to his trucking work, and so I lived in my first city. We lived in an apartment, in a school that was ok but that I didn’t feel like I quite fit in. We were required to play the ukulele and I had never seen one before. The other students had been playing for years and so I was expected to pick it up right away. I struggled, but we only remained in this place for a little over a month before we left again.

My step father was again relocated. I believe this next place was called a city, but it was indeed a very small one. Again we were in an apartment building in the basement. It was small, but we had the police department outside our front door. If anything, it was a safe place to be. I quite liked my school here, and although I had missed the first month, I jumped right in (no crazy musical requirements) and made tonnes of friends. I loved being here. Sometimes between this move and the previous two, my brother also joined our family which of course made a 2-bedroom apartment a tight fit with 5 of us in it.

But of course, once again we had to move when the year was over. This time, we returned to a farm. My parents had been looking for one, and they found a beautiful, old farm that had land reaching down to a large lake. So large you would almost second guess it was the opening to the ocean. On our property we had fields, forest, a pioneer cemetery, we owned half of an open pond, and all of a pond that I considered “magical”. It was surrounded by tree and you only knew it was there if you walked into that circle of mini-forest. The pond was spring-fed and little streams of trickling water would run through the forest from it. When you were inside the circle by the pond, the rest of the world would fade away and you were left in this magical place. This place will forever hold my heart. We stayed on the farm for 2 years. We had everything from cows, horses, pony, chickens (both meat and egg-laying), turkeys, quail, rabbits, dogs, cats, goats, etc. We had never been farmers in our lives and we jumped right in! It was fun and at the same time, so laborious! Here, I made one of my best friends. We spent so much time together that we became like sisters. We were the 3rd and 4th stops on the bus which meant it usually took us an hour on the bus to get to school in the mornings and an hour to get home. But we loved every minute. However, as work would have it, this is the time when my step-father no longer had a job and had to go west, and travel back and forth. So the decision was made to go west with him when school concluded that second year.

We sadly sold all of the animals on the farm, and packed up. My mother and brother right away left to go west with my step-father, but my sister and I stayed with our grandparents so we could spend more time with our father. So for the time being, our belongings were placed back at “home” and we travelled between the two places. I had never seen my dad cry in my life until the moment he found out we were leaving not just to another town or city, but to the other side of the continent. This was one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced.

At the conclusion of the summer, my grandparents, my sister and I packed up the van and hit the road. It was a 4-day journey to cross the continent. I was ever so glad to be off the road when we finally made it. Our new place was a townhouse, again with only 2 bedrooms. We had a very short amount of time in this house as after 2 days, we decided to travel to the big city to show my grandparents around before they made their journey “home”. We had a great time with them, but I was extremely sad to see them leave. That was my last little bit of “home” that I had with me. And these were my mom’s parents who no matter what, no matter where we went, made sure they always came and saw us and always made sure we had what we needed. We drove back to our place while they took off for their next 4-day journey. I think I had a total of 4 days in this new place before we got the phone call, and my grandfather had died in a car accident on his way “home”. My grandmother had called from the hospital. She would later need surgery to re-align her nose. The friend they had driving with them broke several bones. My grandfather had simply not made it. This was probably the hardest thing that has ever really happened to my family. This is the man I had spent most of my life with, the man I knew would do anything in the world for me. I was his first grandchild, my mom was an only child. He took care of us more than any other person, he was always there. I went into severe denial over this. I mean, the man who has chased us his whole life, no matter where we moved, is gone? That just can’t happen! Of course, we immediately went “home”.

My mother jumped on the first plane possible. I remember her falling onto the ground as I was trying to hide around the corner and hear what the conversation was about. The only words I remember was right before my mom started crying, she said “Oh… Mom… “. I knew immediately what that meant. Nobody had to tell me anything. I just went into mental shock. So she jumped on the first plane, while we stayed at my great aunt’s farm for a few days until plane tickets were cheaper to fly the 4 of us home. I started school late that year which ended up being ok because it was the school I had started my life in and I still knew everything there, including my cousins. But the manner in which I started school again that year was different. I was now back to living in my “home”, but it was just my grandmother and I. The house held an empty void, one that took forever to sink in. You see, my grandfather had an office in “town” for his used car business that also had a bedroom in it for the nights he didn’t feel like coming home. It was so easy for me to just think that Grampy was at his office, and sometime he would come home. The rest of my family had moved back to my step-dad’s place as we have never sold that either. But I knew my grandmother needed someone to be there. I wanted to be there. It was so hard to accept he was gone. Even now as I sit here and remember this, tears fall freely from my eyes. A loss that was not and still is not easy to accept. But I was “home” where I definitely needed to be for the next couple years.

At the close of the 2 years, my family met to discuss the problems. My dad had run out of work options (as an electrician) and after talking to his boss, there would be no other options for quite awhile. My mother did not work as we were joined by my second baby brother. We had to move west again. We literally had come back from a campmeeting, and had one week to each pack a garbage bag with clothes and whatever we wanted. That was it. And we made the journey west again with 6 people in a 6 person car. The arrangements were made ahead of time for us to have a place. However, when we got there, we were told that nothing was arranged for us, and so our first living space became a suite at a local hotel. As exciting as this might be for a kid, it was not for us. Try going to school and having your new friends ask you where you live, and you say a one-bedroom suite at the local hotel. Not the greatest.

Thankfully, my mom met a couple at church who had divided their 3-level house into 3 living spaces. Their parents had owned the middle floor, but were on vacation and had no problems letting us use it. We were into a 2-bedroom which was better than 1, but it was still pretty full.

The top floor was being rented by an actual tenant and we were promised her place as soon as she left. She did leave, we moved up a floor, but this is where the problems began. My dad was travelling back and forth for work, and so my mom was left to deal with the issues. The issues were things like mice, bats, bugs, etc. And the landlord would yell at my mom instead of offering to fix the problems.

Thankfully, a friend of my mom’s told her that she could get out of there right away and temporarily we could live in a spare basement bedroom she had. Although this was a good gesture for getting us out of our current problem, can you imagine the 6 of us all living in 1-bedroom with all of our belongings? I don’t have to tell you that this did not last long.

I was in high school at the time, and my mom came running into the school one day with the intention of pulling me out of class. She was so upset that we couldn’t keep living the way we were, and with my dad working away like he was, I very quickly had assumed role of second adult in the family. My vice-principal pulled her into his office before she could get to my class. He very kindly asked her why she was crying and she told him everything. Fortunately, his twin brother was head of the university that shared the same campus, and said he would call and see if we could have one of the college apartments. And this became our next living place. It was right on campus of all of our schools which was easy for us to go to school and easy for friends to come over. We made friends very quickly and I even had some that lived right on campus in the dormitories which turned out to be a great arrangement. Of course, when we first moved in, we had no furniture and so we ate, slept, and did everything on the floor. Eventually, my dad had been working enough that we were able to afford the necessary items, beds, table, etc…

Although that had been a pretty good place, it was a college apartment and we were not a college family. Plus, we had an option to move about an hour away from this place and Dad would actually be able to come home every night from his job placement. At first, we did not have a house arranged, and as crazy as it sounds, we put most of our belongings in a storage unit and bought a fifth-wheel trailer. Yes, the 6 of us lived in a fifth-wheel trailer. The front of the trailer had a master bedroom, and the back of the trailer had 2 sets of bunkbeds, so the 6 of us did indeed fit. We were kind of outside a small city, of course in a campground. And as fun as this was, this did not help us get into school. We instead started homeschool for the first time ever as we lived in this trailer for approximately 4 months before the campground closed.

We did buy a house finally! We moved to the big city, had a nice house. We lived here for just about 2 years, and after I finished homeschool for that first year (and held my first full-time job), I then went back to an amazing school for my graduation year (and of course was forced to drop back down to part-time).

By the end of the two years, my oldest younger brother had been diagnosed with epilepsy which was hard on the family. They had him on so many different medicines, some that left him so angry he’d punch holes in the walls. My father’s job ended for him being able to come home every night, and was forced to go further away so he’d travel back and forth again. My mother needed the extra help, she needed to have more family. And so the decision was made. I would have to decide what university I was going to attend because my family was going back “home”. And to get our house ready to sell, we moved back into the trailer, into a different campground, where we lived for another 2 months. Camping, to me, has developed a totally different definition.

When my parents left, I decided I wanted to go back to the campus we had lived on before. Most of my friends would be attending that university, and I knew the teachers and the dorm supervisors and everyone pretty well. Of course, since they had both university and high school dorms, they decided my sister would stay with me, which meant we had to split a room. Now, it’s ok for a university student to stay with a high school student IF they are in the high school dorm. But not for a high school student to stay with a university student int he university dorm. This is something I struggled with. This meant I had to adhere to ALL of the high school rules. I had to be in the dorm by 7:30, lights out at 10:30 (times may be slightly off, but close). Room checks once a week (maybe even once a day). It was totally restricting.

After Christmas, they said that they were expecting an influx of high school students, so they asked if I would move to the university dorm. Of course this meant I could have some more freedom, but I also had to find a person that was looking for a roommate and ask to move in. I did find a girl that wasn’t so bad, though incredibly interesting at times. It was only for a few months anyway and it ended up not being bad at all.

When university ended, I was not allowed to fly home until my sister was done school two months later. So then, I left the university dorm, moved across campus again back into the high school dorm, but luckily enough had my own room this time. It was so nice to finally have a room to myself.

She ended school, we ended up driving home with my step-dad, and only I came back out. They decided my sister wasn’t read to leave home yet. So this time, I actually spent the whole year in the university dorm with a roommate that had actually arrived after me, but was very studious and quiet. I spent most of my time with my new best friend up in her room anyways. All-in-all, it was a pretty good year.

The next year, I had made arrangements to move out of the dorm. I was tired of the bills, the extreme cost of cafeteria food, and was ready to make it on my own for the first time. I moved into a bedroom of one of the staff on campus. They inhabited the basement while they rented out 3 bedroom upstairs. My best friend also moved into one of the bedrooms. I absolutely loved living in this house for the last two years of my education. It was nice to have all that freedom, cook your own food, invite people over if you wanted to, no curfews, it was great!

When college ended, and I got my first job, I had to relocate as I was definitely unwilling to drive almost an hour each day to get to work. A girl I had graduated with got a job at the same school I had and so we were able to rent a very nice apartment and split the cost. This worked well for a year, but I had gotten engaged in that same year, as well as my sister was travelling back and forth from working for my step-dad, and you could tell my roommate didn’t like my people there as often as they were. She enjoyed having people around, just not the two I had and I ended up spending quite a bit of time either locked in my bedroom or out of the house walking around malls or wherever just to get out of the house.

And thus brings me to my present-day apartment. My job at the previous place was only a maternity leave, and had ended. My next permanent placement was here, in the big city I live in. I wanted to move out of my other place fairly quickly, so I looked for a place that was fairly cheap based on the size. We have had a few problems in this place, but overall, I don’t regret coming here first. This was my husband and my first home together. We have come to outgrow this place is the problem. It is a small apartment.

The next place we’re moving, next week, is a townhouse. A 2-bedroom with a large basement. It’s not the newest, but it’s pretty nice. It doesn’t have the large yard I’d like to have for the dogs, but it’s better than nothing. Right now it takes me about 1/2 hour to get to work, and it should take less than 5 minutes at the new place. When you consider big city stop-and-go traffic, it will save us so much money on gas. There will finally be enough room for our stuff. There will be a place I can have an office for my home businesses. I am so looking forward to this new place, as much as I hate moving. It’s so much work, but I think in the end, it will be worth it.

Now, the sad part is, I know this won’t be my last move. I don’t know where I want to be, but I know it’s not in this city. My husband has not yet received his papers and so I’m the only one who is able to work which means I have to maintain my job. And I do love my job, but I don’t love this city. I will always be a small town girl at heart. And someday, I’ll figure out where that place for me to be is.