by Sean Dempsey | 05/26/26
There was once a gentle farmer,
From troubles borne was he—
His eyes were wan, his spirits low;
But he’d unload his woe for free.
The farmer sighed a grievous sigh,
And gazed on through the trees;
“Come sit thee upon this stump,
And hear the tale from me….”
Pippin was a spotted hound,
As dear as dear could be;
Her coat was white with patches black,
Like cattle on the lea.
She chased the hens, she dug the rows,
She barked with reckless glee;
And every night beside my chair
She slept contentedly.
Yet oft in jest I called her cow,
And laughed most heartily:
“Behold,” I’d cry, “my smallest cow!”
(A foolish jest, thought me.)
One autumn morn the fog rolled thick
Across the field and tree;
The cattle marched unto the road…
And Pippin went with thee.
The wagons groaned; the drivers called.
No eye her form did see.
For all beheld her spotted hide
And thought, “Ah, a cow is she.”
The weeks passed on; the farm stood still.
No bark came unto me.
Yet I supposed she’d wandered off
To seek her destiny.
Then came a feast one winter’s night,
With friends and family.
The roast was rich, the meat was fine,
The finest e’er could be.
I praised the cook a dozen times.
I ate most greedily.
“I’ve never had such tender beef,”
Said I most cheerfully!
My wife looked up across the board,
Her face as pale as sea.
“My dear,” she said, “where is Pippin?
I’ve not seen her recently…”
The knife fell from my trembling hand.
The room spun dizzily.
A dreadful thought, a horrid thought,
Came creeping over me.
The records told the woeful truth,
As clear as clear could be.
The cow they sent was not a cow.
The cow… was friend to me.
I wept and wailed for many months,
In sorrow deep and free.
I cursed the fog.
I cursed the gate.
I cursed stupidity.
Yet still one truth torments my soul,
And shall forever be:
Though Pippin was my dearest friend…
She tasted splendidly.
And thus I bear a double grief…
A strange absurdity:
I miss my dog with all my heart,
Yet I praise the recipe!
