Audrey (cow) Read online

  Text copyright © 2014 by Dan Bar-el

  Illustrations copyright © 2014 by Tatjana Mai-Wyss

  Published in Canada by Tundra Books, a division of Random House of Canada

  Limited, One Toronto Street, Suite 300, Toronto, Ontario M5C 2V6

  Published in the United States by Tundra Books of Northern New York, P.O. Box 1030, Plattsburgh, New York 12901

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013953683

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher—or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Bar-el, Dan, author

  Audrey (cow) : an oral account of a most daring escape, based more or less on a true story / by Dan Bar-el; illustrated by Tatjana Mai-Wyss.

  ISBN 978-1-77049-602-6 (bound).–ISBN 978-1-77049-604-0 (epub)

  I. Mai-Wyss, Tatjana, 1972-, illustrator II. Title.

  PS8553.A76229A83 2014 jC813’.54 C2013-906922-4

  C2013-906923-2

  Edited by Tara Walker and Debbie Rogosin

  Designed by Andrew Roberts

  www.tundrabooks.com

  v3.1

  For Mom and Sis

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1: The Knowledge

  2: The Plan

  3: The Unfolding

  4: The Hunt

  5: The Endgame

  6: The Afterwards

  Acknowledgments

  We peck and scratch out our earthly days,

  but how we long to fly.

  How we long to fly.

  —Lulu Belle, Memoir of a Rhode Island Red

  MADGE

  (cow)

  How would I describe her in a word? Well … young. That was her, plain and simple. Too young to go through what she did, poor thing.

  EDDIE

  (dog)

  Gosh, I’d have to say kind. She was really kind. And sweet too! That’s two words, isn’t it? May I use two words? Because I would have to say she was both really kind and really sweet and beautiful too. Ah, heck, that just came out! Can we cut that part? Please? Everyone is going to give me a razzin’ for that!

  GRETA

  (cow)

  In vun verd? Tragic. (sniff) Ya, tragic is a good verd.

  NORMA

  (cow)

  Pass! … What? Oh, for heaven’s sake. No, pass is not my word to describe her! I meant that I was not taking part in this silly interview. She’s gone. Out of sight, out of mind, I say.

  ROY

  (horse)

  I reckon I’d have to say plucky. She was a pretty l’il thing, but underneath that soft hide was one brave gal.

  BUSTER

  (pig)

  Obviously, the word would be vacca … Why? Because that’s Latin for cow. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, I hope you brought along some harder questions.

  AUDREY

  (cow)

  How would I briefly describe myself? I’m afraid I am not a cow of few words. Mother once said that my heart speaks a mile a minute, by which she meant that emotions can get the best of me, and then I’m off to the races, conversation-wise. It was her suggestion that I practice distilling my feelings into fewer words. But as to your question … hmm. How can you describe anyone, really? The inside and outside can be so different. Here is a poem I composed a while back, near Artificial Lake, around the time of my awakening. It goes like this:

  The cow that I spied was silent and still

  Her smile serene, her mood tranquil

  Oh, to be she, without worry or fear

  Empty of dread and full of good cheer

  Familiar she seemed and on closer inspection

  It was me that I spied in the water’s reflection

  So you never really know, do you? But I think that if I was to choose just one word to describe myself, that word would be alive. Yes, alive. You see, I knew exactly where I was, and I knew exactly where I was heading, which was downhill, straight to the meat section of the supermarket. That just wasn’t acceptable to me. I mean, I had dreams. I wanted to go places … other than to the meat section of the supermarket. I wanted to taste new grasses and flowers and see a million sunrises and sunsets. I had no time for cows who said, “Audrey, this is your lot in life. Accept it and make the best of it.” I couldn’t. I couldn’t give up on life so soon.

  GLENN

  (human)

  Again? It seems the interest in Audrey won’t ever settle down. What more can I tell you folks? The truth is that this whole media hullaballoo is embarrassing. Bittersweet Farm has been in my family for four generations. We’re not particularly big. We’re certainly no factory farm. We have a variety of animals, but cows are a big part of the business. Audrey was born here. As far as I know and understand cows, I would not say that Audrey was special. But I will admit she was memorable. I’d often have to send my older dog, Max, out to the far end of the property to bring her back to the barn. But I didn’t discover any half-dug tunnels under the fence, like they’ve been saying on television. That just didn’t happen.

  As for what did happen, I have no comment. Look, we brought her mother onto the farm as an experiment. A new breed we were trying out. Maybe it didn’t take. Maybe that was what made Audrey do what she did. Not to sound corny, but I always felt that we all got along on Bittersweet Farm—all of us. There were no hints that something was amiss.

  AUDREY

  (cow)

  My breed? Why, I’d be happy to tell you. I’m a Charolais. It kind of rhymes with parlay, which is how you would say “to speak” if you said it in French. France is where my roots are, in the town of Charolles, which is in the middle of the country. I know all this partly from Mother but also from Little Girl Elspeth, who was showing off to her city cousin. She had a book in her hand and was pointing to a map, and I was spying over their shoulders. That’s how I learned about the land of my ancestors. That’s also where I learned about the giant lake called Atlantic that separates Bittersweet Farm from France and that brought my dream of travel to a halt. You see, I wanted to visit Charolles and partake of the local food. Little Girl Elspeth showed pictures in her book of French Charolais—my cousins, I suppose. They were standing in fields, grazing on flowers that I did not recognize. They looked delicious, the flowers, I mean.

  ELSPETH

  (human)

  Audrey … she was my favorite. I could talk to her. I could, you know. Audrey was always nice … she would listen … I think she was special.

  AUDREY

  (cow)

  We Charolais, you will note, are all white—but creamy white would be more accurate. We don’t have those black splotches that you find on similar-looking white breeds. Norma says the black splotches give her character and uniqueness. She says it makes her interesting, implying that Charolais are not. But Mother said that Charolais come into the world as blank canvases and our potential is unknown at first.

  Mother said that my character would be painted on the inside. I like that. Whenever I experience something that makes me happy—if I hear a robin singing just before dawn or if I inhale the scent of grass just after a rainfall—I imagine that the tickling I feel inside is a paintbrush dabbling on another splotch of my uniqueness. I was strengthened by thoughts like that, especially in the face of what others were telling me—others wh
o were far less generous. For example, the book from which Little Girl Elspeth was reading that day said that Charolais are docile by nature, which means we’re quiet and easy to control. It means that we’re unlikely to cause any trouble. Well, you can decide for yourself how true that observation turned out to be.

  NORMA

  (cow)

  Oh, that Audrey, she was born with fancy pants on, that one. What? Yes, I know perfectly well what I said earlier! I’m not senile, and I’m not a dim lightbulb like Agnes either! Everyone knows I’m not one to gossip, but if you’re going to insist on telling this story, you’d better have at least one cow who can give you the facts. First time out of the barn, Audrey was talking about going to the farthest fields and tasting this grass or that clover, or maybe talking to a passing fox. Imagine, talking to a common thief! I’d been here a lot longer than she had, but I never ventured past the first hill. And why should I? Plenty of grass nearby—who needs to go farther? That’s the kind of reckless behavior that comes from a wild upbringing, not that I like to judge.

  I didn’t care much for Audrey’s mother when she arrived. It wasn’t that she was rude; on the contrary, she was very refined, and quietly so. Not show-offy, which I, naturally, wouldn’t stand for. Come to think of it, I don’t know why we didn’t become closer. She was different, you understand. Her family roots were … well, let’s just say she wasn’t from around here. For one reason or another, we never spent much time together. She always seemed to be grazing at the opposite end of the field, and with my weak ankles, I just wasn’t … it doesn’t matter anyhow. In hindsight, it was all for the best. I certainly couldn’t condone her parenting style. Look at how her daughter turned out!

  GRETA

  (cow)

  Audrey vas a dreamer. It is not lie. She vas too delicate for this harsh vorld of farm, ya? I know, for I too vas like a delicate daisy. But in time, life vill shape you into something stronger and more resilient. It can be painful, ya, but vat choice do ve have?

  MADGE

  (cow)

  Greta said what? My goodness, that cow could spin a tragedy out of a mosquito bite. The only horrible thing to happen to Greta was she once missed a morning milking and didn’t get any relief for a few extra hours. But there is some truth to what she said. As far as us cows are concerned, our lot in life is decided before we come into the world. And I said exactly that to Audrey when the time came. I said to the girl, “Audrey, there are but three kinds of cows. There are milk cows, like me. There are work cows, like old Betty. And then there are food cows, and I’m afraid that your destiny is to be dinner.” It was harsh, I admit, but the poor dear needed to know the facts, plain and simple.

  She heard me, but she wasn’t really listening because … well, Audrey was special. And I mean that in a good way, not like how Greta and Norma and all the other gossiping ninnies mean it. Audrey reminded me of Lon, my son, whom I miss greatly to this day. They’re both made of the same sparkly cloth, if you catch my meaning. Both looking up at the moon and believing it’s within their grasp, that anything is within their grasp if they desire it enough. If you ask me, that’s the real tragedy. Cows and steers meant for the dinner table shouldn’t be curious or filled with wonder. They should be boring creatures who spend their days looking at the trough or the tail in front of them.

  AUDREY

  (cow)

  Oh, I remember absolutely everything about the day Madge told me what would become of me. I had just composed another poem, this one paying tribute to some delicious clover I had recently discovered on the southern slope of Viewing Hill. It went:

  Clover green, a tasty treat

  I’m grateful for each one I eat

  I was sharing the poem with my best friend, Eddie, and telling him about my plans to visit the land of my ancestors and tour the countryside, tasting all the grasses and clover the region has to offer.

  Eddie was great. He never laughed at my plans, not like most of the cows in the barn. And I did hear them laughing, even though I pretended not to. I know they thought I was oblivious, but I assure you I wasn’t. I heard all the snickers and Norma’s hoof-scraping whenever I walked by. But Madge wasn’t like that. She wasn’t what I would call friendly or anything, but you always knew where you stood with Madge.

  I heard she lost a son—had him taken away from her, and she was just supposed to get over it because it happened all the time on the farm. But I don’t think she did, and I don’t blame her. I think Madge lost a part of herself, a part of her heart, maybe. Don’t ask me how I know because it’s not a knowing kind of thing. A mist of sadness is how I’d describe it. Yes, a mist like we’d get on gray, foggy mornings that made the farm seem as if it were fading away along its edges. That’s what it was like with Madge, the sadness hovering around her edges, threatening to fade her away.

  So I knew Madge was coming over to Eddie and me even before I turned my head and saw her. I could feel the sad mist. Then Madge told me what I needed to know, told it to me straight … about the three types of cows … and how I was in the least favorite category.

  EDDIE

  (dog)

  I was there! Jeepers, it was awful! Audrey’s eyes grew big, really big, as big as Buster’s eyes get whenever his slop pail is empty and he realizes there’s nothing left to eat. At first Audrey didn’t say a thing. She was as quiet as a windless night, and gosh, I got a little scared myself! I stood up on my hind legs so I could reach high enough to give Audrey a few licks on her chin. She likes that, and aw, heck, it doesn’t mean we’re boyfriend and girlfriend or anything, okay? It’s just something I do to make her happy, in the same way that Audrey licks my face whenever Dad gives me a chewing out for making another mistake. But poor Audrey, she was not consoled. She said to me, “Oh, Eddie, what’s going to happen to me? I don’t want to be a food cow. Whatever will I do?” It made me want to howl, because I didn’t want Audrey to be a food cow either. She looked so sad, and I’m sure at that moment she was probably thinking she’d never get to France to taste all those delicious grasses and flowers. And that’s when I told her not to worry, we’d figure something out. But there was no plan at that time. No sirree. No plan at all.

  ROY

  (horse)

  The plan? Whoa, now hold on there, partner. Yer jumping the story ahead of itself, putting the cart in front of the horse. Before you start chasing Audrey’s tale, you might want to bide a moment and consider Jeanine, Audrey’s mother. Jeanine is the key to this here adventure. It all started with her.

  AUDREY

  (cow)

  Mother and I didn’t have long together, but I will always remember every precious second. Mother was very smart and beautiful. She was kindhearted too. There was a glow that shone around her. It’s true; I saw it. When I was just a little heifer, I’d study her sitting beneath an oak, all at peace, her eyes dark and shiny, and a halo of light radiating all around her. Mother’s voice was soft, and she never spoke quickly. “Audrey,” she might say to me one morning, “look at the sun breaking beyond the hills. Isn’t it beautiful? Can you feel the rays starting to warm your body? Can you see the shadows falling away? Feel the dew on your hooves, cool and wet. In a couple of hours most of it will be gone, but you’ll find drops hugging the grass and moistening your tongue as you graze. Dew drop surprises!”

  Mother was what some might call a detail cow, I suppose, because she’d notice the smallest parts of life—parts that most other cows skip over. I have a different name for her, though. As much as I respect Madge and appreciate her looking out for me since Mother went away, and giving me the facts straight as she did, I do believe that she was mistaken in one regard. There may be work cows and milk cows and food cows, but there is also another type. There are poet cows, and they too serve a purpose. My mother was one such cow. She could describe the world in all its beauty, separating the harsh and ugly parts like farmers separate the wheat from the chaff. With her words, she made the world golden and tasty and so very big, but not scar
y.

  Yes, Mother was a poet cow. And I had to believe that, as her daughter, I might have inherited some of those same qualities. If so, surely I was meant for something more than a truck ride to Abbot’s War.

  NORMA

  (cow)

  You want to know about WHAT? Shame on you! Cows don’t talk about Abbot’s War. It’s considered a very impolite subject to bring up among decent company. Goodness gracious, it gives me shivers just thinking about it.

  GRETA

  (cow)

  Ya, it’s true, so true! Abbot’s Var is best left unspoken (sniff) for it vill only bring deep and terrible sadness.

  AGNES

  (cow)

  Oh, that? Heck, I don’t mind talking about Abbot’s War. It’s like a mystery, eh? And I like mysteries! (snort) I like watching grasshoppers too and saying “whacka-whacka” over and over, and I like science fiction and stuff that’s gross (snort)—which everyone says I should keep to myself, so I will. But mysteries are at the top of my list of favorite things. Mysteries rock! Abbot’s War is not a good kind of mystery, though, like the mystery of how a new calf can get on her legs an hour after birth, which is a beautiful, glorious miracle of life but also kind of gross, ’cause she’s all covered in slimy goo, eh? Oops. (snort) Sorry. And it’s not a happy mystery either, like why humans keep wanting to exchange food for our milk. They do, you know! This arrangement has been going on for years and years! What’s that all about? (snort) But Abbot’s War is a dark, unsettling mystery, like how the chickens keep clucking about their disappearing eggs. Whoa! Lots of weird stuff happens on a farm, eh?