It Won’t Hurt a Bit
Sarah Holroyd
One by one; four shaking, brand new hooves stretched into soft soil. Three black, one that
shone as white as a pearl. The calf’s blinking bright eyes stared at leafy blades of grass in
wonder; he leaned his head down to sniff its fresh scent, edges brushing his muzzle like a
feather duster.
Stretching his neck, the calf looked up into a hairy, curious face. As all animals do, he
needn’t ask to know exactly who she was. Mother. A desperate bleat escaped from his raw
throat as she moved away, and he urgently tried to follow. Like stringy tentacles of a
jellyfish, the calf’s four hooves wobbled and bowed as he stuck them apprehensively into
earth. His black body shone, reflecting rays of warm sunlight, muscles in his weak legs
contracted, and the calf rose, triumphant, into the air.
Calf #BD4701, Angus, 67lb, 09/10. Veal.
A fly screen door slammed and red dust clouded around the peeled paint of a doorframe.
“Stupid bitch, you’re lucky I come home at all!” spat Rob. He spun on the heel of his steel
capped boots and swung open a heavy Ute door. Loud, obnoxious curses resonated through
the tin as Rob drove carelessly down unforgiving dirt tracks and onto a highway. I just
wanted a fucking ham sandwich.
It hadn’t been easy for Rob lately. His entire life was spent looking after his good-for-nothing
wife and children that he hadn’t really wanted anyway. Life was wasted in pubs; nothing less
than a useless commodity to drown his liver with disease in hope that he’d die sooner or
later and perhaps skip the sorrows of his burdensome household. The well-worn gears of his
Ute groaned as Rob overtook a logging truck; gesturing rudely as he passed.
Calf #BD4701 trotted slowly along a buzzing electric fence. Every so often, a yellow tag that
hung from his ear tickled tiny, soft hairs that grew along his neck, his head quivering
awkwardly in response. Conquering rotten logs of displaced gum trees and gullies that
surely once held precious water, the calf made his way through paddock after paddock. It
wasn’t curiosity that compelled the calf to search every inch of acreage he grazed upon. Nor
was it endless energy that often possesses a newborn, or a quest for escape along highways
or bush roads. The calf was simply thirsty, and he could not find his mother.
In due course, calf #BD4701 became weary and his little hooves shuddered underneath him.
Upon a particularly luscious patch of grass, he lay down in defeat, and watched ants make
trails along the ground.
“Did you see that try Damien scored?”
“Bloody oath Rob, I wouldn’t have missed that for anything. It was a cracker.”
“I’ll be damned if he isn’t playing B-grade by April, he’s a fucking legend.”
Rob aimed the heavy hose at rubber-lined holding boxes, thinking of his own recent rugby
victories. If only he had been in the right place at the right time, maybe he’d have been a
football legend, rather than a poorly paid pawn roaming from abattoir to abattoir. Sure as
hell would have beaten whatever he had going for him now.
“That next batch of Angus’ from Grady’s place…when’s that coming in again?” Rob said.
“Wednesday, I’ve been told. But you know what Grady’s like. Won’t be here unless they
fetch a decent price soon, so don’t count your chickens.”
“That’d be fucking right. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, and his cattle are
all such a pain in the ass. The big game’s on Wednesday night! I tell you, if I miss it…”
The sound of a little girl’s giggle was new to Calf #BD4701’s ears, and his long eyelashes flew
skyward, desperately searching for the source of the predator. Metal barriers blocked him
in, and the dirt under his hooves wasn’t nearly as forgiving as the luscious foliage he was
used to. This was not where he was meant to be at all. Out. Pathetic bleats reverberated
through the calf’s body, as little pink hands reached toward his baby fluff coat. There was
nowhere to go; this place wasn’t like the vastness of the grass paddock. Out. “Look at his
little white hoof, Mum! It’s so pretty,” the little girl said.
“It sure is, my love. Have you got the bottle ready?”
Confusion and fear vanished from his eyes instantly when his tongue tapped the bottle and
milk dripped into his dry mouth. Nervous giggles erupted from the little girl, as she held the
bottle above the calf’s head and gently stroked his downy face. He did not notice, for he was
no longer thirsty, and the world was at peace once again.
Rob glared at a cigarette in his hand; disappointed at how fast it had fizzled away. He
pressed it into the soil with his boot, watching a cattle truck reverse toward him. Bashings
and bleats of restless livestock had become second nature to Rob, and he drifted into a
daydream. Turning over the bolt gun slowly in his hand, he thought of field grass beneath
his feet and a muddy ball in his hands, try line in sight…
“Rob! Get those bloody mongrels out of there! One’s fucking keeled already!”
Leaving the try line behind him, Rob clambered up into dirt-clad holding yards, brandishing
his authority in his left hand. He felt buzzing of metal along the length of his arm, snarling at
the cattle, watching eyes roll into the backs of heads. It felt good; knowing that with a flick
of his wrist, he could make hundreds of beasts move with a terror he would never know.
Clattering hooves hitting the ground with anxiety, the smell of dirt, blood and sweat,
watching the cattle push desperately against one another without purpose; Rob smiled.
A calf cannot comprehend the hours in which his face is pressed against the wooden slates
of a truck, how many minutes he breathes the stench of rotting excrement plastered over
his comrades, or how many seconds his body shook with fright and uncertainty. But calf
#BD4701 knew that it was a very long time. There was no grass to rest his tired hooves, no
trees to laze underneath and no clouds to watch crawl their way across the sky. And he had
not found his mother.
A sudden jolt and the harsh bellows of men signaled the abrupt end of the monotonous
journey. All around him, erratic horns and rumps moved restlessly, the sound of shrill lows
filling his ears. Stamping his white hoof against the filthy wooden slates of the truck, calf
#BD4701 pushed his way through to the back. Out. Light poured into the damp canister as
the back wall collapsed to the ground with a deafening crash and beside him, an exhausted
heifer gave a desperate cry of defeat, and fell onto her trembling front legs. Bark bark bark.
Cattle stampeded towards the light at the back of the truck, kicking up whirlwinds of dirt
and dust. Out. Amongst the drone of cattle heads, dogs moved stealthily. The calf had seen
dogs before, and he knew exactly what they meant. Out. His small white hoof brushed the
back of the fallen bovine, who no longer trembled or made any effort to escape her trap.
Sad. Almost at the rear of the truck, the calf could see clouds dragging their way across a
serene blue sky. Free. Relief fluttered across his face; he knew they meant grass and
paddocks and shady trees; for surely they could mean nothing else.
“Bloody useless,” Rob swore, staring at the clumsy cattle tripping over a carcass that lay
motionless and bloody, right in the centre of the truck. It was shit like this that pissed him
off, it would take another hour to sort the cattle out now. I’m gonna miss that fucking game
after all. He turned to a gruff man beside him. “Remember the days when we could just
winch ‘em off? Bloody pollies don’t know what they’re talking about. They’re gonna die
anyway, they don’t need royal treatment.” The two men stepped into the truck, boots
sinking in inches of cow shit embedded in the floor. Through the damp darkness, their eyes
rested on the body of a large heifer, head lifted ever so slightly with the only strength she
had left. Rob wouldn’t call the vet; they never did, it was a waste of time and money when
there were much simpler options at hand. Besides, he couldn’t stand the high and mighty
bastard. Fingers stretching along the shaft of the bolt gun, Rob crouched at the cow’s head,
placing the cool metal shaft right between two terrified eyes that stared straight back at him
in contest. A thought struck Rob; “Hey Barry, don’t forget to bring your boots tonight!”
Calf #BD4701 was confused. He saw sky and milky white clouds, but there was no grass.
Thirsty. No matter which direction he turned, rows of metal fences, high and strong,
engulfed him. Trotting along amidst the other cows, for that is what calves do, curiosity and
confusion turned to utter fright. Trap, trap, trap. Ahead of him awaited a dark, buzzing
building. Out. The calf knew that no grass would be found in there, or little girls with bottles
of warm milk to ease his hungry stomach. Arcs of electricity flew in splendid shapes to the
rumps of cows from the arms of men, clutching onto metal rods with power in their eye.
One by one, they disappeared into the dark shed. Calf #BD4701 threw his head in the air
and bleated with all his might, as electricity burrowed into his skin. Hurt. Only once had the
calf ever brushed against an electrical fence, but it hadn’t made his body shudder with pain,
or his legs give out to the hard dirt underneath his hooves, like this had.
By the time Rob got to work in the shed, he knew his game wasn’t too far way, for the hard
part was over. Most of the cattle had been dealt with already; packers would send them off
in no time at all. With squinted eyes, Rob gazed at the six cows still left in the holding yards;
five medium sized heifers and a young looking bull calf with an unusual white hoof. Rob was
a lazy man, instead of putting in the effort of moving a big heifer; he reached down with his
guiltless blood-covered hands, and lifted the calf right off the ground. As he strode back into
the shed, Rob chuckled at how human-like the calves sounded sometimes; it was almost
scary. The calf mustered up his last bit of strength and thrashed to the ground, scraping
Rob’s arm with his pearly hoof. “Fucking mongrel!” Rob screamed, clutching his bleeding
arm. Gonna have to fucking fix this before footy tonight. There was no time for patience or
rules anymore. With a snarl on his face and anger in his eyes, Rob reached to a dusty rope
close by and pulled it tight around the calf’s skinny back legs. The trembling heifers watched
with wide eyes as Rob dragged the calf through the dust and over the rusty metal ramp, into
the damp, dark shed.
Watching trails of blood that leaked from his nose, calf #BD4701 wept. He kicked and he
thrashed, but there was nothing he could to free himself. Out, out, out. Abruptly, the calf
froze. In the dark shed, where mouldy lights hung from the tin ceiling and machines
murmured his fate, calf #BD4701 saw. Death. Across the bloodied floor lay carcass after
carcass, open eyed, leather-clad men stringing them up in the air to drip the life out of
them. Tears were lost down the soggy face of the calf, and he then understood. Calf
#BD4701 did not want to die. He felt the cold cylinder placed against his forehead and sharp
kicks thrown at his ribs. Hurt.
“Don’t bother stunning the little fucker, he doesn’t deserve it.”
Slowly, the metal slid across his forehead to the base of his ear, before the trigger was
pulled with a sickening crack. Tin rafters shook from the calf’s cries and the men’s snickers,
the bolt severing his tiny, fluffy ear. The pain was excruciating; it burnt more than when
they had tied him down and held burning metal to his skin, it stung more than when the
yellow tag had been pierced into his newborn ear, it hurt more than when they had taken
his mother away. But calf #BD4701 knew it was nothing compared to what was coming. End.
“It won’t hurt a bit, little baby calf,” the men laughed.
A calf cannot count how many metres his body is dragged around the shed by tight chains,
he does not know how many strokes it takes the saw to cut through the bones of his shaking
legs, one by one. A calf cannot comprehend the force used to divide his fluffy skin from the
meaty flesh of his rump, inch at a time. A calf cannot count how many minutes he lay
blinking on the ground, watching his own blood trickle from the slashes in his neck, dripping
through the cracks in the wooden floor.
Or so they thought.