Of Cattle and Men

by Ana Paula Maia

Edgar Wilson prays for the salvation of the soul of each animal he slaughters and puts it to sleep before its throat is slit. He’s not proud of what he does, but if someone has to do it, then let it be him, who has pity on those irrational beasts.

Round and seasoned like that, they don’t even look like they had ever been a cow. Not one glimpse of the unbridled horror behind something so tender and delicious.

‘As long as there’s a cow in this world, there’ll be a guy willing to kill it.’

They’re all killers, each their own kind, performing their role in the slaughter line.

‘Not a drop of blood in your eyes,’ Santiago says, warming up before motioning for the next in line to enter the box. ‘Never again,’ says Edgar Wilson, as his mallet strikes a cow’s forehead.

He believes that the sacramental host cleanses him of all impurity and redeems him of all imperfection. And so, by eating Christ’s flesh and drinking His blood, he feels part of Christ. But it never occurred to him that by eating the flesh of those cattle and drinking their blood, he would also become part of the animals he slaughters every day. Every Monday Milo goes to work feeling like a man of God: by the sweat of your brow, you shall eat bread.

The dead cow cannot be saved. Not even he, who is still alive, can be saved.

‘Edgar, they’re just animals. They’re under our authority.’ ‘To live or die?’ ‘To serve us.’

Those who eat are many, and they are never satiated. They are all men of blood, those who kill and those who eat. No one goes unpunished.