There is a lovely plot of land down the road that is home to a family of sheep and geese. In the winter the owner hangs a lit star over their little manger. It's a sweet sight to see the animals huddled inside beneath the warmth of it's symbolism. As the snow begins to melt we watch the sheep as their belly's grow soft and round with the promise of new life. Just about the time the tulip bulbs break through the hard crust of winter our little friends make their entrance into the world.
They arrive to great fanfare. Families walk by each evening to watch the awkward newborns discover their gangly legs. Mothers stand at the fence each morning with their strollers and toddlers in tow. Cars pull over to the side of the street just to watch the enchanting dance of the new ones at play. The first grade classes at the local elementary school go on a "walking field trip" each year to greet the little balls of white fluff. My 6 year old made the trek just last week as did my two older sons when they were his age. It's a magical experience for our little neighborhood.
I remember the very spot I was standing when I received the disturbing call. I was in the middle of Gymboree, thumbing through the sale rack. My friend was on the line, near hysteria as she informed me that "the truck" was paying a visit to the lambs. Bile rose to the top of my throat. We both sat on the line, speechless.
I had been educated on "the truck" the year before when we purchased meat from that same friend and her husband. She had explained in detail how "the truck" showed up to their lot and took care of business right there . . . on the spot. It pulled away a few hours later leaving no trace of foul play. A few days later we had uniformly wrapped packages with the words "hamburger," "T-bone steak," and "rump roast" stamped nicely across the front. And to think "the truck" was now down the street visiting our little neighbors, right there, in broad daylight. The horror!
Needless to say, Allie and I won't be walking over to meet the bonny new lambs this spring. I'm still mourning their wooly kin.
3 comments:
Oh...that's sad. By the way, HOA is the Homeowners Association.
Hmmmm...the sad reality of life on a farm. I have also heard from my dad that 'the truck' is very slick doing it's dirty work.
"The truck" visited our neighbor's cows on an annual basis as well. My Mom made us stay in the house and keep away from the back windows, but we did notice that when the truck left, there were no more cows.
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