Dead bodies smelled different up close. Moments before, we had walked through the kitchen, loud with conversation and warm from movement. It wasn’t until we left the room did we realize that the marinades and smoke only barely covered the smell of death approaching. The butcher continued guiding us to the way, way back, passing a cooler containing hooked, disfigured animals lacking faces. All of which were unrecognizable to us children. The cutting room—stiff and silent—had metal equipment around its perimeter and was moderately brightened by the wooden table in the center. A carcass was already hooked on display.

This here’s a nineteen-week-old calf. Typically, we see this as veal, he said. The butcher brushed his gloved fingers over the pink skin. He pointed at different sections then started making his cuts. 

Trim this section a little cause there’s too much fat, he said. Then he let us touch it. We pinched the fat then pinched each other to see if there was any difference in how the skin bounced back—there wasn’t. Flesh was flesh, wherever it was from. On the wooden table, the butcher stripped its leg of silver skin. With precision, he trimmed and chiseled the sliver until he got a good quality product ready to be packaged for consumption. It was surprisingly quiet the way he enacted this violence. We couldn’t hear anything beyond our collective breathing. 

Our sense of normalcy changed every second longer we watched. After the calf, we moved onto a larger body. A full-grown cow. There was still a gentleness in how he carved out the different segments. Most of the noise came from when he placed different parts on the table with a singular thump, and when he separated the ribs with a hand saw, a tool some of us have seen in our homes. But not all of us made that connection at the time. Going to the butcher’s shop was supposed to season us for what lay ahead, but all we wanted to do was continue our summer biking around town or doing nothing on our couches. Still, this mandatory field trip was an important part of the tradition. This preparation set us up for a learning of life that wouldn’t be covered in school.

Here, in the center of the sleepy town of Evansville, a couple miles from our state capital, there was a large, faded barn; inside, contained square sections divided by splintered, wooden fences. Today it was empty of any living breath, but in a couple weeks it would be filled with pungent smells of feces and a chorus of animal speak indecipherable to the human ear. Time at the barn was meant to be a distraction not only for us but also for our parents and other inhabitants of the town. The townspeople remembered their past pets fondly, sharing pictures and stories from time to time. They flattered themselves for upholding such a valuable tradition and were anxiously awaiting for this year’s group to start.

Before our first day of school, they split us by category: pigs, calves, lambs, goats, etc. For the first feeding, some of our parents thought it would be a good idea to wear something representative of our assigned animal. Those who thought nothing more of the exercise decided to wear clothing that had been passed down in their family. Others who took it more seriously not only wore their hand-me-downs but adorned themselves with jewelry featuring realistic representations of the animals. Then there were those who had little care for what was happening, evident in their lack of fashion or mocking onesies. Some of us wondered how different life would be if we had begun with an egg, a creature still sheltered from little everyday disasters. Something we would be adjusted to in the future. But for now, like these animals, we were creatures still forming into ourselves.

Much like the subjects we studied in the classroom, there was a learning curve to understanding the animals’ habits and getting them used to their feeding times around our school schedule. There were shrill calls for those of us who could only come late because of extracurricular activities, and when we were there, we hesitated to become intimate with them and they us. 

Throughout the school year, we were reminded that the most respectable course of action was to make sure the animals were comfortable and to provide as much as we possibly could because it seemed like the right thing to do for something that was going to die. Most people did as told. Fed them. Combed out their fur. Some extended an extra hand and gave little treats or accessorized the pets with names to make a clear stake in whose was whose, blurring the line between our actual pets and the animals we consume. Those who did so, continued furthering their relationships with them. Interacting with these animals as if they could respond back. Revealing secrets and insecurities as if to a diary. Taking their sounds and the glistening of their beady eyes as enough of a response. It was through these animals some of us started to see ourselves reflected. 

But there was one dissenting group, mainly comprised of kids who showed initial distrust of the tradition. They followed instructions matter-of-factly and chose, much to their parents’ disapproval, to do only the minimum. So, while we were building closer attachments with our pets, they kept their animals at a distance, treating them as livestock meant for consumption. They were met with opposition from other children, parents, teachers, almost the entirety of the town. Snide comments from our peers and parents that were too loud to be whispers. Bribes for extra credit from teachers they couldn’t care less about, and when that didn’t work, threats of failing classes if they didn’t meet a certain amount of time with their animals. Some kids eventually caved, following the same rituals as us. But a few held their ground. They were the ones who would eventually leave town, never batting an eye to return, looking down on this tradition as an annoyance they had to endure. 

On the last day of school, we gave our cattle one last pet, tracing the warm outline of their body and taking in the rough textures. We stilled our hands for a moment, waiting to feel for the little push each creature had within, that proved them to be alive. It didn’t give us any comfort, knowing the ending of the exercise. Still, we patted ourselves on the back for upholding the tradition and for our compassionate treatment. 

It won’t be until years and years later when I’ll think about Butter or Dayzie, recalling the tradition to my children. We’ll sit together comfortably on cushioned seats, eating a pot roast for dinner in front of the TV, munching and crunching meat and chattering about these pets that taught us to care for the world. All the while, in low volume, a news reporter debriefs the public of the latest shooting or the possibility of another catastrophe.