Andy Keung Cheung and the Death of Shame

When I was a child, there was an anonymous poem that graced the wall above my bed.  I don't specifically recall reading it often, but I must have because I still know every word (I will attribute this to "Anonymous"):

You got it from your father
It was all he had to give
So it's yours to use and cherish
For as long as you may live

If you lost the watch he gave you
It can always be replaced;
But a black mark on your name
Can never be erased

It was clean the day you took it
And a worthy name to bear
When he got it from his father
There was no dishonor there

So make sure you guard it wisely
After all is said and done
You'll be glad the name is spotless
When you give it to your son

Looking back on this poem, I believe that this was where I first became aware of the parallel concepts of integrity and shame.  For one of the first times of my life, I think that I can honestly say that times were different when I was a boy than they are now.  Today we care less for honor and more for convenience.  It has been bred into us and it is a hallmark of the new "American way".  "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country", is no longer the vision as many peoples' world views shrink to encapsulate only themselves. 

It is in this way that I can unfortunately see how a person such as Andy Keung Cheung could be capable of this type of horrible cruelty.  I have read many of the stories associated with this immense injustice and I have been somewhat surprised by the number of posts that have associated his cold indifference to his race (Based on the assumption that he is of Asian descent, most likely Korean).  Having travelled in Asia and worked with many Asian co-workers, I have always experienced a much higher awareness of honor, or "face" in those countries.  Doing things that bring shame upon oneself or one's family is frowned upon.  The acts of "Seppuku" or "Harikari" may have had different origins, but in common parlance they have become associated with the voluntary ending of one's life as a result of shame. 

Is it fair to expect Andy Keung Cheung to feel shame?  I believe it is.  I also believe that anyone who continues to eat eggs or chicken after seeing the way that these were treated should feel shame, but that is another matter.  Do I believe that he should commit Harikari?  No, I do not.  At it's core, that is an act of honor and he has not shown himself to have any to preserve. 

So, what would be a suitable punishment for a creature such as this?  I think I have one, although by mentioning it here, I am in no way encouraging it to be applied.  This is purely shared theoretically as a suitable way of achieving the justice that we all know will never be administered.  When I lived in England, my family took a trip to Scotland.  As part of that trip, we visited a number of castles.  There was one castle in particular which was in an advanced state of ruin.  I remember it quite vividly, which is unusual because if you ask me about things that happened when I was a child, I generally have hazy recollections of them or only remember having seen pictures.  I would never forget the dungeon in this castle, or what would more appropriately be called an "oubliette", from the French word meaning "to forget".  As you can probably tell by the name, these were never nice places, and this one was perhaps one of the worst.  It looked like a long shaft, about the diameter of a man-hole cover.  It was too deep to see the bottom of and it was explained that prisoners would be stacked one on top of the other, separated by grates.  The diameter of the shaft made it impossible to sit or lie down.  When feeding was done, and it was by no means guaranteed, the food was dumped at the top and the further down you went in the shaft, the less likely you were to receive food.  Proving Newton's laws of gravity, there were other things that were likely to come falling down upon you if you were unlucky enough to have prisoners higher up in the shaft. 

This is the best example of a battery cage that I could imagine which has ever been applied to humans.  I think that spending the equivalent number of seconds in this environment that the chickens in his charge had to spend without food is the only way to impress upon a shameless person the gravity of his crimes.  Trust me when I say that time in such a state would be measured in seconds and not hours, days, or weeks.  Every one of them ticking by would be in terror, hopelessness, and would be a countdown to an unpleasant end.  Even if he were still incapable of shame, he would at least hopefully receive the gift of empathy somewhere along the line.

For everyone who is not names Andy Keung Cheung, I hope that you can understand that he is not an aberration.  He is a product of an environment that lacks both shame and compassion.  I believe that most non-sociopathic people have the compassion part and now that you know the faces behind your food, it is up to you to decide how to handle the shame.



A Lovely Day for a Swim

As has been the case a lot lately (See last post), I have been seeing things at the Farm that are a bit on the unexpected side.  Today, I decided to document this in a somewhat creative manner.  I hope you enjoy.

P.S. The unusual thing was that I never see the pigs using the plank...normally it is only for us people who also fear what lies amongst the depths of the Pig Pond..

See What?

Today I find myself secluded in the house like a freak having been the "victim" of a botched hair dye job which has left me with "old lady" pink hair and a scalp that is covered with random purple leopard spots.  Shockingly, it turns out that I am not licensed nor bonded by the State of California as a hair stylist and our homeowner's policy doesn't cover it either.  In the spirit of looking on the bright side, it means that I have time on my hands to write about the past week and some of the interesting sights that made me do some double takes (Like people will with my hair until I figure out what to do with it next).

The first story involves a simple tree on the Farm in what is called the Oak Tree Pasture.  As you can probably guess from the name, it is an oak tree.  For anyone whose imagination has been hopelessly compromised by the effects of today's media and the Internet (Except for my blog, of course which can only make you a better person), I was hoping to provide a good picture of it.  Imagine my surprise as I went through literally hundreds of pictures only to find that I have never taken a picture of it, even by accident.  When I look at how many pictures I have of rocks, my leg, my finger (I think that's what it was), it is astounding that I never got the tree, even if it was barely in frame. 

Well, the tree really isn't that notable anyway, although don't tell the tree since I suspect it is old and it may hurt its feelings.  What was notable was what happened to be in the tree on Friday.  While doing feeds, I was called over by one of the other caregivers and we both looked in amazement at the two goats who had decided to climb the tree.  Noel and Justin had apparently managed to jump up to the first "V" before the branches split and were quite contentedly nesting there.  Every once in a while, Justin would try to get higher, but then he would come back, seemingly disheartened. Just when you thought you had seen it all, you see not one, but two goats in a tree!

The next notable observation came on Saturday when I was cleaning the Sheep and Goat Barn.  Now, for those who are do not have a BSE (Bovine Sanitation Engineer) degree like I do (See below), I may need to set the scene.

When we facilitate soiled straw extraction and disposal, our primary implement for collection and secondary ground abrasion effect is the rake.  Now, amateurs may think that they know all about the simple rake, but trust me pal, you don't!  While you may use rakes to pull sedentary debris, I can use mine to kill a man in seventeen increasingly gruesome ways and I have single handedly fought off several rogue vampires by staking them through the heart with the handle (I can't go into more detail on this right now since there is a legal case pending since I couldn't prove they were vampires, but hey, the upside is that the duck hunting across the street has decreased significantly!).  As a 27th level BSE, I also know that a rake can be used to push things if you flip it over and push at just the right angle and hold on to the handle hard enough to prevent impaling yourself (Vlad the impaler style where you run  yourself through and slowly slide down the rake until the word goes out for a "Clean-up in Stall 4").  This allows us to move large quantities of straw around quickly and is somewhat of a trade-secret (Oops!).  Kids, do not try this at home, we are trained professionals!

Anyway, I was in the middle of this dirty business when Madeline Goat came by the gate and seemed to have something important to tell me.  She did, but it was only that she wanted me to come over and open the darn gate so she could come in.  I did since technically i work for her and the review cycle is coming up and what she did next surprised me.  As I was rake-pushing, she stepped in front of me, positioned her head against the rake handle so that it was between her horns, and she began pushing with all her might.  It was actually helping!  I didn't have the heart to tell her this since I am sure that was not her intent, but it was another amazing image that happened because I left my camera at home.

The last story that I will share before I run off to try to wash the spots off my head again is somewhat sad, but sweet.  Anyone who has read my entire blog and is not currently committed to a mental institution or wondering how they came to waste such a valuable portion of their life, will know about Whitaker; The cow that wants to be a human.  For those who are new to this (Who am I kidding), Whitaker came to Farm Sanctuary as a calf and bonded strongly to people.  The saddest thing used to be hearing him moo for his "people herd" to come get him away from the cows.  He has come a long way now and has some good cow friends, but he still sees himself as one of the caregivers who just happens to be deep undercover with the herd. 

So it came to be that yesterday the main cattle herd came down to pay a visit to the barn.  It was nice seeing all of my old friend in one place, but after a while they began to filter back to the pasture and I needed to get back to my cleaning.  When I finished and started to drive the tractor out, I heard and caught a glimpse of something almost simultaneously.  After a brief investigation which involved rotating my head eighty-four point six degrees (Hey, I am an "engineer" after all), I saw a very confused Whitaker.  Specifically, I saw an adorable former calf who was wondering why this bulging, stuffily dressed (Accidental pun), grotesque person with hair that was so fried it looked like straw wouldn't accept his "friend request".  This broke my heart a little so I knew I had to get off my high-tractor and go give him the human hug he needed.  He gave plenty of cow kisses and then reluctantly went to back to his undercover assignment.

The upside to this last story is that, if worse comes to worse, I suspect I may be able to get Whitaker to use his tongue to de-purple my scalp when I go back to work on Tuesday.  As for the "old lady pink", I guess I need to take up bingo at the local casinos!

Thirty Nine Feels a Lot Like Thirty Eight - Only Smellier

It was a long time ago that I stopped seeing birthdays as exciting milestones and started to see them rather as milestones along the way to whatever lies beyond this mortal coil. Once you pass the "good years" like eighteen (When you are officially and adult), twenty-one (Where you can begin to indulge "adult" habits), and twenty-five (Where you can rent cars, at least in Hawaii), the rest don't come with new "powers". Where once there was excitement, now there is the promise of new aches and pains, diminished mental capacity, and most of all, a need to invest more and more in hair dye.

I have, on more than one occasion, wondered whether the difference between mortality and immortality is our apparent need to keep track of time. Maybe God just stopped counting!

It was in this somber mood that I turned thirty-nine this week. My current employer actually gives you your birthday off as a paid vacation day. I think that this is a really cool thing. Apparently, however, this is not an automatic vacation day, so I found myself on the schedule and working. I am in no way bitter about this. Anyone who has read more than three of my posts will know that there is nowhere that I would rather be and few intelligent creatures that I would rather spend it with (By this I mean the animals and not the humans at the Farm - Just kidding!).

Since Lori seems to like keeping track of the withering count of years ahead of me, I had hoped to be able to get off work on-time - in this case 6PM - so that I could get home to whatever special birthday treats awaited me. Having recently celebrated our dog Heidi's fourteenth birthday, I wished to make out at least as well. This was not to be.

Recently we made some changes at the Farm regarding assignments and roles and responsibilities. I was on the "PM Feeds" shift, and this shift now involved closing in the animals in the small barns. I think that this is a good change since it splits the workload between two people and makes it more likely that they can both get off somewhere in the vicinity of the desired hour, or at least on the same day. Since there are two people working on this, it seemed to me like it should be a team effort where the day ends for both upon closure of the last barn door. I had been somewhat vocal regarding my position on this at our last Staff meeting and it was in that spirit that I found myself asking whether Mike C needed any help after I finished up my tasks at five forty-five. He replied that I could start wrangling the ducks and geese if I wanted and so I set about this.

While this is not one of my formal responsibilities, I had been given the chance to help with this on a few previous occasions and knew that it could be tricky. While all the other animals can eventually be rounded up on land, the ducks and geese have two nasty habits. First, the geese like to bite and I am not talking about nipping. I am talking about skin abrasions encased in a softball sized, multi-colored full-on bruise. Second, they are quick to take to the pond if they are not ready for bed. Imagine a three year old human with the ability to encase himself in a ring of fire whenever he doesn't want to brush his teeth, take a nap, or whatever else three year olds do; At thirty-nine that memory has apparently been deemed "irrelevant".

I know what you are thinking: "What's so bad about a little water?" That is a good question and it can be answered very simply. The pond in question is shared by the pigs. If you have ever heard the saying, "Do bears $@&# in the woods?" you can be assured that the same is true for pigs and their pond.  While the pigs are delightful animals, they are not dainty and neither is their ordure. Although this does not bother the pigs, the ducks, or the geese, they all seem to know that this water quality is not popular with the humans.

After tucking in all but two of the ducks and geese, I walked down to the pond to look for the stragglers.  As I approached Della and Shelly who were on the bank of the pond and facing in the opposite direction of where I needed them to go, I wasted my birthday wish in hoping that they would see me coming and relent.  Instead they went for a swim, right to the middle, and stayed there.  With the sun setting over Black Butte Lake, the look on the ducks faces said, "Happy Birthday...Not!"

Vainly pacing around the perimeter of the pond, I wished that I had paid more attention t that whole "walking on water" thing in Sunday School.  I concluded that I would probably have "insufficient funds" in my "Faith Bank" for such a feat.  Besides, that pond was probably only ten percent water, at best.  I begged and pleaded with them at first.  As Mike C arrived after closing the other barns, we resorted to splashing and concocting sounds that we hoped may be inspirational to the ducks.  And still, they swam in small circles in the middle of the pond. 

When the sun completely disappeared, we tried to laugh at our impotence standing on opposing banks being defied by these little critters.  I take great pride in the fact that I have never been angry at an animal, but that is not to say that there aren't situations that can be profoundly frustrating. 

By the time that Kerrie arrived to help out, our flashlights were barely able to even keep track of the ducks anymore.  The writing was on the wall; At least one of us was going to have to get wet.  I took my first steps off the bank and into the water.  In a fair world, this feat would have been enough to convince the ducks that we meant business, but anyone who has paid any attention to the news knows that this is not a fair world.  The ducks remained defiant so I proceeded, as did Mike C and Kerrie. 

As the water began to ooze over the tops of my boots, I realized that I was "all-in".  I was already contaminated so I might as well push aside any pretense of staying dry.  I asked Mike C how deep the pond was and he said that another caregiver had told him that it was about knee deep.  I really wish that this nine foot four inch caregiver had been on shift this night instead of me because the water was about up to mid thigh by now and was approaching parts of my body that I really didn't want contaminated. 

I was mentally retching with each disgusting schlurp of the mud (Please God, let it be mud) on my boots as I moved forward.  Watching us closing in on them, Della and Shelly seemed to ponder what other acts of madness we may be capable of and though better of their protest.  They made their way onto the bank and then waddled up the path to the hutches.  I had been in this situation before and knew quite well that Della was capable of turning around and flying right back to the pond, but I think that the looks in our collective eyes advised her that this may not be prudent.

With the sound of the latch closing, my attention turned to the soaking pants that were pressing against my skin with a foul odor that did not bode well.  I couldn't bear to wear them a second more so I stripped them off in the office.  It wasn't just the fact that they would stain my car seats with more souvenirs, but the thought of what they were dripping with was making my mind run wild.  For the first time in my life, I was at work in my underwear (Actually, I have often dreamed of inexplicably being at work in my underwear or naked, so maybe it was prophetic!).  In order to avoid offending anyone, I wrapped a shirt partially around my waist, bid farewell to Mike C and Kerrie, and hit the road.

My mind quickly returned to lunch time.  I had gone into town at lunch and had noticed that I needed gas.  I had made the decision to wait and get gas on my way home.  Now the fill light was no longer blinking but was on solid.  I didn't know if I would make it to the gas station or if I would end up having to walk.  The only thing I knew for sure was that those pants were not going back on.  Good fortune paid a visit for the first time that night and I made it to the gas station.  Although the station was busy and had an ample supply of folks hanging out in the parking lot, my attire or lack thereof, didn't draw any attention.  Based on that and the lack of police sirens, I went for a complete fill up.

And so was formed my most memorable experience of my thirty-ninth birthday.  I can't wait for the big four-oh!