Bovinephobia alive and well

In a story sure to shock one Louis la Vache as much as it did I, the front page of today’s Advocate – my home town’s journal of record – shook me to my very core, and prompted me to muse on it.

First, the facts as we know them:

A dark and stormy night.
An unlit road out in the country.
A young man in a high powered vehicle.
Thirty cows innocent of any crime.
A CRASH!

So why then, I must ask, this headline?
"Man hurt as car hits cows"

“Man hurt?!?” FIVE innocent cows killed, and they choose to run with “man hurt”?

Unfortunately this is merely the latest in a long line of anti-bovine reportage. It is distressing that the media are not aware of their own biases, and how, constantly, their framing of stories reveal an innate prejudice against cows.

When asked for comment, this cow said, “Yeah, the marginalisation of cows is disturbing”.

I will not even go into another disturbing facet of the story, other than to say that this quote from the story is equally troubling:

“Sgt Lee-Anne Walters, of Smithton police, said yesterday about 30 black cows [my emphasis] had wandered onto the road before the crash.”

What, pray tell, has the race of the cows got to do with it?

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

Search This Blog