I wrote this extra-short story to examine the idea of “humane meat” and the fact that grass-fed cattle end up in the same place as factory-farmed cattle.
667. That is my number, the only name I’ve ever known. When I look at my reflection in the pond I see it on the blue tags hanging from my ears. The others have numbers as well, all sloppily written on the blue or yellow pieces of plastic stuck into their ears. My closest friend has yellow tags – 92. We have spent many days grazing together in the fields, the open spaces a welcome home after the cramped pens we were born in. The cramped pens we were chased back into this morning.