Becky R. Jones - Author

The year is 8500 BC. You are an aurochs, six feet at the shoulder, and very little alive frightens you. Some people on the upper Euphrates have built a pen. About 80 of your mothers and sisters walk into it, and every cow that will ever live walks out. The bargain is simple. They keep the wolves off. You let them near the calf. It seems, on the day, like a fair exchange, and you keep your side of it for ten thousand years. The year is 4000 BC. There is a beam across your neck and a pointed stick dragging behind. You lean into it because the man beside you is leaning too, and he talks to you the whole length of the furrow. He has given you a name. When you die his children will cry, and he will not eat that week. Every field on earth for the next six thousand years is opened this way, by the two of you. The year is 2500 BC. In a temple in Sumer they carve you into the wall in white limestone: the priests milking you, the churn rocking, the butter poured into jars. You are washed every morning and counted every night. You are the most valuable thing the city owns and you are treated like it. Nobody carves the barley. The year is 1200. You haul stone up the hill at Laon, a load at a time, for a cathedral you will never be let inside. When the towers are finished the masons carve sixteen of you, life-size, and set you at the very top, looking out over France. The bishop gets a slab in the floor. Somebody remembered who did the lifting. The year is 1750. You come down off the Alp in September with flowers woven round your horns and a bell the size of a bucket, and the whole village is standing in the street in its best clothes to watch you pass. The finest milker walks at the front. She knows it. The year is 1852. You are one of six in front of a wagon in Missouri, with a family's whole life behind you and two thousand miles ahead. The children ride on the tailboard, and by Nebraska the youngest has named all of you. When the grass fails you are fed last and you pull anyway. A country is walked into existence at two miles an hour, which is your pace. The year is 1922. In Toronto a boy of 14 is dying of diabetes. He weighs 65 pounds and has days left. They inject him with an extract of your pancreas and he gets up and goes home. For the next sixty years every diabetic alive is alive because of you. Not one of them ever learns which of you it was. The year is 1946. Britain has just weighed and measured its children for a war and seen what the ones without you looked like. A bottle of your milk goes on every school desk in the country, by Act of Parliament. That is where you stand in 1946. You are named, garlanded, carved on cathedrals and written into law. Hold that thought. The year is 2006. A report comes out of Rome with your shadow on the cover. It says that you, stood in a field, are doing more harm to the sky than every car, lorry, ship and aeroplane on earth. The sum counted everything about you from the fertiliser to the fridge, and only the exhaust pipe of the car. The authors admit as much. By then the sentence is on a billion screens. The year is 2019. Thirty-seven experts publish the diet that will save the planet. Your share is a quarter of an ounce a day, one small burger a fortnight. A child comes home from school and asks her grandfather, who has got up at five to milk you for fifty years, why he is hurting the world. The year is 2023. The Dutch government is paying farmers to be rid of you for good, on condition they never keep you again. A paper on a minister's desk in Dublin costs out the removal of 200,000 of you from Ireland, the island that counted its kings' wealth in your heads. The year is 2026. Denmark has passed a law to tax your breath. There is a powder in your feed to stop you belching. A carton of oat water in the fridge says it is like your milk but made for humans. In a steel tank in California they are growing the thing that is meant to finish you off, and they feed it on corn. You ploughed every field they ever sowed. You hauled their cathedrals and carried their children across a continent. You fed their orphans and kept their diabetics breathing. In return you asked for grass and somebody to watch for wolves. You are still giving all of it. This morning, in the rain, on ground no plough could use, you gave it to people who have been taught to be ashamed of taking it. You know none of this. You know the gate, the voice, and the hand on your flank at five in the morning. He has read the report. He came anyway.