Chapter 15

Buster's World

"Well Buster, what's up today?" I toddled out to meet this ever-friendly, glad-to-meet-me, tail-wagging friend and mentor.

"Oh, I don't know, lots of things," he panted, enjoying the scratch behind his ear, "we could always check out the local politics. Seems they are just getting over the recent election."

Me: "That sounds like fun. Is anyone taking it hard?"

Buster: "Well, the Omni's are taking it pretty bad, while the Herbi's are lapping it up. I don't find either side particularly valid."

We started for the barn as I asked, "Why's that? Seemed that both sides were pretty well organized..."

Buster: "Well the Omni's lost by a squeaker, but not as much as they narrowly won it four years earlier. The Herbi's pointed out that during that election several races, including the Governor's, were decided by the same amount of votes on one polling place which turned out to be false. So there was a great deal of attention on getting everything straight this time, especially since some people lost their jobs and faced some gaol time if found guilty of it."

Me: "No one was gaoled, were they?"

Buster: "No, but the threat alone was sufficient to keep some otherwise errant fools on their right track. Seems last time there were all sorts of people voting, even those deceased, and so people didn't want this to happen again."

Me: "So what are people saying to explain their views and results?"

We had reached the barn and paused inside, out of the November winds and chill. Buster sat and scratched behind one ear briefly before continuing, "Well the Omni's are now claiming voter fraud of their own, something to do with the new machines and the volunteer poll operators. Some of them say their candidate we never qualified to begin with and others have a wide range of excuses as to why their party is still better than the other guy's, which tend to be pretty trollish and inflamatory. But I guess all this venting is helping them accept the reality of it."

Me: "On both sides? Venting from the winners?"

Buster: "Well, call it gloating or posturing, but it is still an unrealistic look at what is actually going on. But it seems better than the last major election."

Me: "How so?"

Buster: "There's always a bit of crowing and kvetching that goes on, but when there's a good margin, both sides return to their corners and clean up their act to get ready for the next election."

Me: "So they do this in an arena?"

Buster: "No, no, thats all a manner of speaking. We do these elections for more fun than anything else, keeps us up to date on two-footeds' antics. Oh don't look shocked. You think we take you all seriously? Life is too short for that as it is."

I closed my mouth and suppressed a wry grin. Buster had cracked a joke - or at least I hoped so. "You take us with a grain of salt, then?"

Buster: "A very large grain. Let's go see some friends of ours." He led the way out of the warm sunshine streaming in through the large southern door of the pole barn. We went under the rafters where there was usually one or more peacocks sitting, "They see everything, usually one of them is up there checking things out and taking notes. No small wonder we call them the barnyard reporters - look at that long beak: they've always got their nose into something."

We went by various machinery, mowers, wagons, planters, all parked out of the weather. "Watch your head here, reporters often infrequently give their opinions when you bypass them." However, we made our way through rest of the barn without incident.

"Here's some interesting friend of yours." Buster stopped us in front of a large outdoor cage. You're tolerant of their different societal relationships and profit by their proclivity. Here's 'Sue,'..." He gestured towards the big red rooster, in a pen with nearly 20 hens.

"Well, Buster, thanks for the intro, although you know I don't like that name." Sue was talking to us and keeping his one good eye on us and the pen's yard at the same time.

"Oh, you know I think it's funny," Buster was showing his wide toothy smile again as he panted. "It's because they let that visiting grandkid of theres come over and name everything. Yours was pretty comical, since about a dozen or more of the critters here got named that that year."

Sue was mollified, a bit. "OK, well, as long as you explained it." He turned to me, "You can call me Jack - you know, as in 'one-eyed' - get it?" he crowed in laughter at his joke.

Jack continued, "I don't understand what your two-footed's hang-up with sex. Not perhaps you personally (you look a bit young to me for that) but in general, you enforce a harem approach to us, but then enforce a monogamous attitude on yourselves. Not that I mind, much (heh, heh) but it's an interesting point. Just ask the calves over there, they can tell you."

Me: "I can see you have pretty much everything you want, though."

Jack: "Well, except for the freedom we'd like. We've got this small exercise yard, but any chance we get, it's out-of-here!" he crowed, excited. "But yes, we have all the food and water we want. Not much for heating, but we make do in the winter. Shade and sun are something we are used to - at least we aren't cooped up in some climate-controlled hothouse like some of our cousins. There's some real horror stories I've heard from over there. But yes, we've got everything we want. Mostly the hens die of old age - me, well I enjoy what I have for as long as I have it."

Me: "You -- go earlier?"

Jack: "Nice phrasing, kid. But yeah, I wind up in the stew pot. But that's the choice. My hatchmates who were male ended up earlier than I did, so I'm enjoying what I've got. It's not so bad - at least I'm here talking to you."

I looked back shocked.

"Oh don't take it so hard," Jack smiled. "Life and death are as much your problem as it is ours. Because you want life so much, it's improved our quality of living quite a lot. Used to be we'd have two to three years and that was it - burn out with giving eggs and then it was into the stew. These white cousins of ours here have that problem. Hyperkinetic and flying all over the place. They've been bred to be prolific egg-producers. My red nestmates mostly quit during the winter, giving them the reputation of making healthier eggs. These white ones just lay like crazy and then drop dead in a few years. Not a great life, but you deal the hand you get in life."

This made some sense to me. I was still figuring out how I was here with what I had. Being born male or female wasn't an option to me, nor was my hair color or how many fingers I had on either hand. But I could do more with my life than the rooster I was talking to, since I was one of the "two-footed" breed.

Jack: "But your life is far more complicated then ours. We are pretty happy with what we've got. Look, I'm surrounded by all these chicks!" He winked with his good eye at me - or so it seemed. "So other than the stew date is unknown to me, I've got about everything I need. So I live it as I can get it. But ask the calves, they live a shorter time than we do here."

Buster and I thanked him and made our way over to the feedlot. The calves were lazing around, mostly laying down in the dirt lot they had, getting what shade was available to them to stay out of the hot sun, even though it was nicely cool that day, because their coats were mostly or all black. One was near the fence and ambled over to see what we were up to.

"How you all today?" He asked.

Buster: "We're fine, thankyou and, well, we thought to ask the same of you. Oh, by the way, this little two-footed goes by the name of Herbert, and this bovine is Jock."

Me: "Glad to meet you, Jock."

Jock: "Same here. Don't see many of you around here. Got any alfalfa for me?"

Buster: "No, Jock, we've only come to see how you are doing."

Jock: "Ohhhh. Shooot. Love alfalfa."

Me: "And how do you like living in the feedlot?"

Jock: "Well, it's nice when it's dry and cold when its wet. But we've nothing much to do but eat, drink and sleep, so there's not much to complain about. Sometimes we get to running around the lot for fun, but we usually get winded pretty fast, so that doesn't last long. And sometimes we play king of the hill on that manure pile, but that's about it for entertainment. Otherwise, we just watch what goes on and eat as much as we feel like. It's a life."

Me: "Don't you miss your mom and dad?"

Jock: "Well, sometimes. We can hear them over the hill a bit every now and then, but we were pretty independent from them a long time ago, so once we got used to being completely on our own, it didn't matter too much."

Me: "Has it occurred to you why you're in this feedlot?"

Jock: "The way it was explained to us is that we're going to be taken one day and not come back; our life here will be over, but might have a new one coming up."

Me: "And that doesn't bother you - I mean your mother and dad continue to live over the hill and are having a sibling again."

Jock: "Well, that's their life and this is ours. We hear the gossip and the chickens keep us informed, as well as the cats and sometimes the raccoons come to fill up on our feed, so tell us a lot of what's going on. It's all very interesting and is amusing to recount to each other over the watering trough, but nothing life changing. We've got our life here and it's a good one."

Me: "So do you think anything could be improved?"

Jock: "Not much. If we put in concrete floors, these are cold and hard all the time. Straw would be nice, but we make do with throwing some hay around and laying on that. Gravel is better when you put a layer of mud over it, since it is hard to stand on otherwise. We would like to get out in the woods to get some acorns in the fall, but this throws off our diet as they are just too rich. Every once in awhile, they feed us an alfalfa bale or two - but this is mostly when the grandkids are visiting so that they can see the animals up close. Two footeds are like that - always educating their kids. We have to be on our best behaviour when they are around, otherwise they get alarmed and don't feed us as much or scratch our heads."

Me: "So life is pretty much the way you want it?"

Jock: "No, but we make the best of what we got. We could wish for the moon to come out of the sky and be our nightlight, or perpetual grass to grow and the nights to be no cooler or the days hotter than we can easily stand. But these wishes wouldn't make it so. We make do with what we have, which contents us."

Buster interrupted here, "Well, thanks Jock. It was great to talk to you again. Tell the others we said hello."

Jock: "I will, Buster. Come by again and bring little Herbert - I'm sure this will make for some interesting conversation for several days as it is. Take care." Jock then ambled back into the shade and laid down next to his friends, who were looking up after him and waiting for him to tell them what we had been talking about.

Buster motioned to me and we went over to the pond, down the hill and up to the edge of it, where he proceeded to lap up a drink. I got a handful and wrinkled my nose at the smell.

Buster noticed and said, "Well, this isn't your 'city water' that you're so fond of drinking. I think this smells a lot better than all that chlorine you put in your water. This is softer, has more minerals in it and will keep you from catching a lot of those colds you get every year. That's because it's full of life and living things.

"That is really why we came here, in order to talk to some of these others. I asked one of them to hang around, as I planned to come down here today."

A raccoon emerged from the brush at the edge of the trees and slowly walked toward us, his mask making his eyes look beady and intent. He stopped at the edge and carefully washed his hands by patting them in the water and rubbing them on the clayey sand there.

"Hello. Good day. My name is Butch. And you are..." said the raccoon.

Buster: "Hiya Butch. This is little Herbert, whose come to ask you some things."

Butch: "Hello young sir. It's a pleasure to meet you. How can I help you today?"

Me, amazed at the civility of the new acquaintance: "I'm glad to meet you too. If you don't mind my asking, how is your life going?"

Butch: "Well, that's not a question I get asked everyday, but it's going just fine, thank you."

Me: "Could you tell me how your life compares to those calves in the feedlot, or the chickens in their cage?"

Butch: "Sure. We raccoons might be said to live a far more adventurous life, but there's always a trade off for the freedom we have. True, we aren't particularly subject to the arbitrary time spans which two-footeds allocate to their subjects, however, we do have the interesting pastime of other animals having us as their particular food chain. While we occasionally poach one of the chickens or, more regularly, the cattle feed, we also can supplement our food with fish we catch, cattail roots, various berries in season and so on. Winter has us laying about many days and venturing out to easy food sources such as the cattle feed other wise. Perhaps winter has less choice, but we aren't as the squirrels and work through the summer to put our food by. We prefer, as it were, the more eclectic diet of the moment."

Me: "And how do you compare your life to these others."

Butch: "Well, I woudn't trade it for the world. I've heard of many who lived for awhile in a man's household, and talked to others, particularly some squirrels, who have co-existed in a two-legged's house with them for most of their lives. They were treated well, but were thereafter poorly suited for life on their own. A substantial learning curve to accomplish to even survive."

Me: "So what would you say is the biggest difference between your life and those others?"

Butch: "Biggest would be the required responsibility level. Anyone can live in a cage and survive on the food and water given them. If one is going to live on one's own, then there is a commesurate required responsiblity to be assumed. Here's an instance. Now the banty hens and roosters do not live in the cages. They have the run of the yard and only have to be caged when they are hatching some eggs for the two-leggeds. Otherwise, they are free to come and go. Now, when they go setting, they are subject to myself and my other cousins (such as the opossum and the mink) to take both the eggs and the hen as a meal. This is why the two-leggeds lock them up. As well, they roost in the rafters of the barn. Since they sleep soundly at night (we don't), they are again fair game for us. Now - if we take too many of them, then the two-leggeds set traps for us and we are then fair game for them. But it is we who have made ourselves such targets for elimination. Were we to stick to the boring corn meal cattle feed or other foraged items, we would live longer lives.

"There is something to be said for the thrill of the hunt. However, when it makes one become the hunted, then you have the other inevitable side of the coin. What goes around comes around, as they say.

"All-in-all, I couldn't say that either life is better overall. While the calves have much shorter existences, they live in fair comfort with every real need provided and no enemies to threaten them in the dark. We wild things live life as we find it and have moments of extreme excitement as well as long times of dullness in the winter while we wait for spring. One could say the cattle and chickens live dull lives all year round, but they have the same changes in season that we do and as well have all the various other creatures bringing them gossip.

"I hope this has helped to answer your questions."

Me: "It does and thank you very much. Lots of good data to chew over."

Butch: "And thank you for your questions as well. They've helped me to consolidate some thoughts I've had down this line and will give me something to review this coming winter. Well, I must be off. Hope to see you again sometime."

Buster: "Thanks, Butch. Take care."

Butch nodded and trundled back into the brush, blending into the leaves and branches, quickly disappearing as if never there.

Buster and I turned back to the Main House, walking uphill in the warmer, sunny day. While the scant clouds ambled through the day, slowly evaporating with the growing heat, all the conversations I'd had that day were ambling through my mind, percolating and swirling, yet somehow condensing into place.

What place this was had no name as yet, but I'm sure something would come to me.