The Cow Test
I mentioned it earlier, in connection with the Kafka's Crap Friend test. The latter, as I say, is a good way to find out if you have any friends or not. The Cow Test, on the other hand, serves the purpose of determining if a given person, friend or not, has the sort of dark authoritarian streak that you would do well to be forewarned about before getting too involved.
I first heard this story from Rossana, a Uruguayan acquaintance I knew briefly in Granada. She had a degree in Cultural Mediation from the U. of Seville, but I didn't hold that against her. Not initially, anyway. Admittedly, nothing says "I am an interfering busybody" more than those two words "cultural mediation" in juxtaposition, but well, let's face it, most people don't choose what their degree is in, it just sort of happens to you, you just wake up one morning and find you have a degree in something crap and borderline unemployable, which you accidentally studied while in a deep coma under three feet of ice in a frozen Siberian wasteland: such is my experience anyway. So one day she was talking about something and happened to say in passing apropos of I forget who, "hay que matarle la vaca" (it is necessary to slaughter his/her cow). I asked what she meant by this, and this is the story she told me:
(swirling piano arpeggio)
A Buddhist Master and his disciple were travelling along a dusty road when they came upon a farm at the edge of a tiny ramshackle village. The farmer came out to meet the two travellers.
"I am a poor man," he said, "but all I have is yours, Master. I will be honoured if you stay the night. I have little food, but I can offer you a little milk and cheese from my cow, and a few beans."
The Buddhist master smiled a kindly smile and accepted the farmer's hospitality. Before entering the house, he stopped and picked up a handful of soil, examining it attentively.
The next morning just before dawn, the young disciple was woken up by his Master with a well-aimed kick to the scrotum. "Arise," said the great man, "We are leaving, and we have work to do." He led the boy into the yard, where the farmer's cow was visible in the half-light. "Help me take this cow to that cliff over there."
"But that would be stealing!" the boy said, profoundly shocked.
"Do as I say." said the Buddhist Master. "One day you will understand."
Reluctantly, the boy helped his master untether the cow and drag it towards a nearby cliff. With an almighty shove, the Buddhist pushed the cow over the cliff. It fell thirty feet, ending up in a bloody mess below. Its neck was broken.
"You don't like cows, then." the boy remarked. "I sort of get that. But it's kind of a pity that you have just condemned a generous man and his family to starvation."
"One day you will understand."
A year later, the Buddhist master and his disciple found themselves once again travelling through that remote area. On reaching the village, the disciple was surprised to note that the fields all around, previously fallow, were now in cultivation. The farmhouse where they had slept was now an imposing building, with a car-port and a Range Rover parked outside. Once again, the farmer came out to greet them.
"How happy I am to see you again," said the farmer. "Listen, I will tell you of a miracle. The day after you visited me, my cow broke loose and fell down a cliff. At first I was heartbroken, thinking my family would starve, but I sold the meat from the cow and with that I purchased a few bean seeds, and I found that I could prosper much more easily from the cultivation of beans, as this soil is fertile. And now, look, the others in the village have followed my example, and we are all much richer than before. We are truly blessed. Would you like a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and some Marks and Spencers Chicken Kiev?"
The wise Buddhist master turned to his disciple, smiled a smile of great smuggerie, and said "See now?"
(slow plagal cadence on piano.)
So there you are. If the person you tell this story to ends up agreeing that the Buddhist Master was truly a wise and good man, then I'm sorry to tell you that you are talking to an authoritarian, the sort of person who thinks that the lives of other people must sometimes be interfered with "for their own good", that "the end justifies the means" - the school of thought which leads to Soviet collectivist agriculture, to famine and the deaths of millions. If, on the other hand, your interlocutor is able to see that the Buddhist Master was in fact an arrogant, interfering git, then there's hope for humanity yet.
Their call.
I first heard this story from Rossana, a Uruguayan acquaintance I knew briefly in Granada. She had a degree in Cultural Mediation from the U. of Seville, but I didn't hold that against her. Not initially, anyway. Admittedly, nothing says "I am an interfering busybody" more than those two words "cultural mediation" in juxtaposition, but well, let's face it, most people don't choose what their degree is in, it just sort of happens to you, you just wake up one morning and find you have a degree in something crap and borderline unemployable, which you accidentally studied while in a deep coma under three feet of ice in a frozen Siberian wasteland: such is my experience anyway. So one day she was talking about something and happened to say in passing apropos of I forget who, "hay que matarle la vaca" (it is necessary to slaughter his/her cow). I asked what she meant by this, and this is the story she told me:
(swirling piano arpeggio)
A Buddhist Master and his disciple were travelling along a dusty road when they came upon a farm at the edge of a tiny ramshackle village. The farmer came out to meet the two travellers.
"I am a poor man," he said, "but all I have is yours, Master. I will be honoured if you stay the night. I have little food, but I can offer you a little milk and cheese from my cow, and a few beans."
The Buddhist master smiled a kindly smile and accepted the farmer's hospitality. Before entering the house, he stopped and picked up a handful of soil, examining it attentively.
The next morning just before dawn, the young disciple was woken up by his Master with a well-aimed kick to the scrotum. "Arise," said the great man, "We are leaving, and we have work to do." He led the boy into the yard, where the farmer's cow was visible in the half-light. "Help me take this cow to that cliff over there."
"But that would be stealing!" the boy said, profoundly shocked.
"Do as I say." said the Buddhist Master. "One day you will understand."
Reluctantly, the boy helped his master untether the cow and drag it towards a nearby cliff. With an almighty shove, the Buddhist pushed the cow over the cliff. It fell thirty feet, ending up in a bloody mess below. Its neck was broken.
"You don't like cows, then." the boy remarked. "I sort of get that. But it's kind of a pity that you have just condemned a generous man and his family to starvation."
"One day you will understand."
A year later, the Buddhist master and his disciple found themselves once again travelling through that remote area. On reaching the village, the disciple was surprised to note that the fields all around, previously fallow, were now in cultivation. The farmhouse where they had slept was now an imposing building, with a car-port and a Range Rover parked outside. Once again, the farmer came out to greet them.
"How happy I am to see you again," said the farmer. "Listen, I will tell you of a miracle. The day after you visited me, my cow broke loose and fell down a cliff. At first I was heartbroken, thinking my family would starve, but I sold the meat from the cow and with that I purchased a few bean seeds, and I found that I could prosper much more easily from the cultivation of beans, as this soil is fertile. And now, look, the others in the village have followed my example, and we are all much richer than before. We are truly blessed. Would you like a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and some Marks and Spencers Chicken Kiev?"
The wise Buddhist master turned to his disciple, smiled a smile of great smuggerie, and said "See now?"
(slow plagal cadence on piano.)
So there you are. If the person you tell this story to ends up agreeing that the Buddhist Master was truly a wise and good man, then I'm sorry to tell you that you are talking to an authoritarian, the sort of person who thinks that the lives of other people must sometimes be interfered with "for their own good", that "the end justifies the means" - the school of thought which leads to Soviet collectivist agriculture, to famine and the deaths of millions. If, on the other hand, your interlocutor is able to see that the Buddhist Master was in fact an arrogant, interfering git, then there's hope for humanity yet.
Their call.
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