Crazy Cows and Bull Shit

Animals were always escaping. We'd chase after them, clattering
behind the slaughtermen, squealing like the fleeing pigs. The sheep
were the funniest, running too close together, their fat candyfloss
bodies jostling along on licquorice legs. The pigs would hurl
themselves around, wriggling out of grasping hands and always managed
to stay free the longest.
The cows were the worst, they looked crazed, just like dad's cousin.
Their eyes stretched so wide you could see a perfect circle. It took
ages to forget. I'd see them for days. I never knew if I was scared or
sorry for them. Sometimes a bull got out and then the streets emptied.
Doors were locked and faces flattened against windows, eyes squeezed
into the meanest of angles.
I heard one once. They trapped it inside the dairy at the end of the
street and you could hear it charging around crashing into the milk
floats and the crates smashing onto the floor. It went on for ages, it
was great. Rivers of milk ran down the street. They had to shoot it and
the milk turned pink.
When the coast was clear my dad and I would shovel up the shit, there
was always heaps of it. The cow shit smelt the worst but my father
preferred it to bull shit. He'd had enough of that. He never asked me
to shovel it, he said you'll step in enough along the way. He told me
the first thing to go is your bowels. Fear always strikes them down.
And he knew, he was a boxer.
He used to spend the whole day on the toilet before a fight. He had to
be empty. He said when you're in the ring all you want is to sniff it
on the other guy.
On the way to school I would try and sneak a look through the hatch in
the slaughterhouse wall. I never got to see much, a few skinned cows
strung upside down, then it would slam shut and a voice would chase me
away. Only stray dogs were allowed to hang around. The scent followed
me. I smelt of warm mincemeat and nobody wanted to sit next to
me.
My Aunty told me I was nearly killed by a bull. A few months old and
left outside the newsagents.. What your mother was thinking of I've no
idea. She was in buying fags and there you were screaming your head
off. You couldn't bear to be left. It came thundering around the
corner, clipped the side of your pram and you bounced off down the
street like a ball. All they could see was your head bobbing up and
down in that bashed up pram, but when they got to you, you were just
sitting laughing. Another inch and that would've been it.
The local paper ran a story with the headline 'Bull Rushes Baby'. My
father said it was an omen, to survive that meant I'd be able to bounce
back from anything. Anytime I got worried he would tell me 'You've seen
a bull off at six months, there's nothing to be afraid of'. My mother
stopped smoking. She said it was her thank you to God.
It didn't stop her dying of cancer.
When she died someone brought round a bag of blood. There was a card
stapled to it. It read 'To you and the kids from all the lads at
Wilsons Abbattoir'. There was a faint red thumbprint in the corner. You
could see every thin contour. It was perfect. Just what a detective
would want. I kept it for evidence. My dad said it was veal, a calf. I
wouldn't eat it and was called ungrateful.
I said my mother wouldn't let me eat a baby cow and ran upstairs. I
cried myself to sleep and dreamt about cows in the front room, taking
over the sofa. They looked happy and peaceful, smoking cigarettes,
watching tele and drinking tea.