Seymour was my Friend

Seymour was my friend. 

I met him when I was 12 years old. He was given to my father by his police colleagues in 1968 as a joke. You see, my Dad was leaving his job as a detective on the Chicago Police Department to become a farmer in Wisconsin. So they gave him a white bull calf as a going-away present. I named him Seymour, and he was given to me. I rode up in the back of the van with Seymour from Chicago to Junction City, Wisconsin.

My memories of Seymour are a bit hazy now – over forty years have passed since those days. Everyday I would feed Seymour, at first out of a bucket with a teat at the bottom. I think we borrowed one from our neighbors. They were real farmers, with a huge dairy farm with dozens and dozens of milk cows, in addition to many head of beef cattle. Plus horses, chickens, ducks, and pigs as well, I believe. They had sold the farm where we were living to my parents – it had been the homestead of the parents of the husband. In those early days, we got lots of advice from these neighbors on anything to do with farming and animals. 

My brother Robert and I used to go over to help our friend Joe with his “chores.” It was a unique experience for us to feed the cows, clean the barn walks, shovel manure, bail hay – it was all new and fun. Joe must of thought that his ship had come in, as he had these two helpers that he didn't have to pay. We used to work over at their farm, and then sit down to a noon meal with them – everyone at the table for a big feed – there used to be about 12 people altogether.

So, every morning and every night I would go out to the barn and feed Seymour. We usually fed him mostly ground corn. He grew quite fast. And he was like my pet. He would come when I called him. He would jump up on my back and I would walk around hanging on to his front legs. It looked really funny. It is natural for bovines, both male and female, to jump up on each other. He wasn't that heavy on my back – either that or I had gradually gotten used to his weight over time.

When Seymour was about a year old, the eldest son of our neighbor, Lawrence, told my Mom and Dad that we needed to castrate Seymour. He said that if we didn't, then he would grow dangerous. He told them it was almost too late already, that he should have been castrated much earlier. He offered to do it, and my parents accepted. I was there when it happened.

Seymour at this stage was quite big – probably over 700 lbs. Lawrence asked me to pull his tail up over his back and tug on it hard – apparently this diminished the pain. Lawrence had these pincers – I believe they are called an “emasculatome” - and he positioned the jaws on the scrotum just above Seymour's testicles, which were quite big already, about the size of goose eggs. The device works by breaking the tubes that go down to the testicles, without breaking the skin. It must hurt a terrible amount. I believe Seymour bellowed when Lawrence closed the device. Afterwords, Seymour dropped his head about an inch from the ground, and stayed that way for quite a long time. He must have been in such pain and shock. I felt so bad for him.

Seymour recovered, and after a few days, he was pretty much back to normal. He would still jump up on my back, and I used to show this trick to my friends.

When Seymour was bit over 2 years old, I think the neighbors started talking to my parents that it was time to butcher him. Now, there really was no need to do this. We did not need the meat. And Seymour was like a big dog – he was my pet. There should not have been an issue – it would not have been a problem to just let him grow huge, like an ox, and let him live out his days like that. But my parents were still trying to look like farmers, I guess, and they didn't want to do anything to make themselves stand out or look stupid. So they allowed themselves to be convinced by the neighbors, and they called the local butcher to come and get Seymour. I can't remember the day that they came to get him – I might have been at school.

The next time I saw Seymour, he was wrapped up in white butcher paper in 2 lbs packages. 

My Mom thought that his meat would have been really tender as we had almost exclusively fed him on ground corn. However, she mentioned that she thought the butcher had kept the meat from Seymour and had given us some other meat that wasn't as high a grade.

I never thought that it was necessary to kill Seymour. 

It would have been great to have had a huge ox on the farm – we could have taught him to pull stumps or even plow. It would have been so cool to have had Seymour around for as long as possible – apparently oxen can live up to 20 years. But it seems that my parents were influenced by the neighbors and, despite my connection with Seymour, they decided it was more important to fit in with what was expected. So Seymour, my pet, was butchered.