March 27, 2001
Chuck Wagon and Hamburger
by Joshua Carden
With the recent furor over foot-and-mouth disease, I decided to write an article on cows that I have known personally.
[Author’s note: I had always heard this disease referred to as “hoof and mouth” disease, until very recently when a radio DJ announced the previous title “foot and mouth” disease while I was driving to work. I thought she said “foot IN mouth” and thoroughly embarrassed myself by calling in to the station and asking if she was talking about cows or people!]
When my family first moved to the country (1981), we moved into the country lifestyle with great gusto. My mom planted and cultivated a garden. My brother and I got a horse. Admittedly, it was a Shetland pony that was all of three feet tall (8.75 “hands” in the horsey metric system). But it was still a horse, and at ages 7 and 4, it was enough. Not to be outdone, my dad brought home our first of two cows. The intention behind this purchase was to raise the cow for butchering later. To keep this intent constantly at the forefront of the minds of the family (especially my merciful mom), we named the cow “Hamburger.” Hamburger happily munched her way through our one-acre pen until she grew large enough to step through our barb-wire fence and departed for greener pastures. When we discovered the empty pen, we were at a lost for what to do. We thought of running an add in the local paper. (“Missing: Cow. Brown. Answers to ‘Hamburger’”) That idea was deemed impractical for rather obvious reasons, at least, if you’ve been to Texas. It might work in downtown New York City, where cows are a little more scarce.
Anyway, we decided to pray for Hamburger’s safe return. Sure enough, one morning we woke up to find Hamburger casually munching in the front yard. I think that did a lot to increase my and my brother Jason’s faith! Well, the time came for Hamburger to fulfill her life purpose. The night before dad loaded her up in the trailer, he stood with me out near the pen. “Josh,” he said, “you and Hamburger have gotten to be pretty good friends, haven’t you?” I said, “Yes, we have.” Dad looked at me: “And is it going to make you upset when we take Hamburger to have her made into steaks?” “No, not really,” I responded. “Why not?” he asked. “Because I like steaks better than I like my friends,” I said. Of course, now I no longer have this shallow view of friends. . . unless my brother Jason is cooking the steaks! Jason had his own turn at reacting to Hamburger’s demise. After the trip to the meat market, a few weeks went by and then we had some family come in from out of town. Jason marched up to my aunt and demanded: “Ask me how my cow is!” “All right,” she obliged, “how is your cow?” “Not so good,” Jason answered, “she’s in the freezer!”
Well, all things considered, the Hamburger experience enticed us into getting another cow the next year. Keeping the same mindset, we named this cow “Chuck Wagon.” (If we had gotten a black Angus cow, we would have named him “Midnight” – short for “Midnight Snack.” Really.) Chuck Wagon performed almost exactly the same disappearing stunt as his predecessor. (“Missing: Cow. Brown. Answers to ‘Nobody.’”) There was a small difference: he didn’t come back willingly, even with prayer. We finally got a call from a neighboring ranch (a few miles away) that an unknown cow had shown up and were we the ones missing a cow? We went down there and chased him for a while, and then finally rigged a corral gate to close when he went in for a drink. As we attempted to load him into the trailer, he lowered his head and pinned my dad to the side of the truck. Fortunately, he didn’t have horns. My dad wrestled him to the trailer and we finally got him inside. On the drive home, Chuck Wagon attempted to climb out of the top of the trailer, and basically just went insane. For the rest of his time with us, he showed nothing but animosity, until even my mom was ready to send him to that Big Roundup in the Sky – by way of our freezer. On that day, he once again attempted to take out his insanity on my dad, until my dad was ready to give up the rodeo business and go back to the rat race. “At least the rats were smaller,” he said in a moment of reflection. When he got to the market, he warned the men who did the unloading that he had a crazy cow to give over to them. The two men looked at each other, shared a “what a greenhorn” moment, but they pulled out the stun guns just in case. [Note to PETA: the stun guns were only used on the people bringing the animals and not the animals themselves.] My dad, sensing disbelief, went into a bit of explanation and went around to the back of the trailer. He opened the door and jumped back as if the trailer were filled with hungry rattlesnakes, preparing for Chuck Wagon’s angry eruption. Well, ol’ Chuck got the last laugh that day: He casually walked right out of the trailer and straight into the holding pen the two men had set up! My dad pleaded, “Really, he’s mean. I promise!” All to no avail. I don’t think he improved his reputation with the boys at the meat market.
Since that time, I’ve had ample experience in the western lifestyle. Jason and I have ridden on a roundup, gone to rodeos, worn hats, chaps, boots, spurs, the whole enchilada. But our love for the country all traces back to our parents who bravely moved from the city out to the family farm and allowed their sons to enjoy life out there with a fat, little pony and two cows named Hamburger and Chuck Wagon.