I am a cow. I am two years old. I am one of many being transported through Toronto. However, there is an accident and the truck overturns. Some are confused, suffering shock and head injuries and these cows begin to wander the road and its shoulders. The rest of us make for the neighbourhoods. We climb fences. We take exit ramps. We walk the crescents and courts of the subdivisions. We recognize as our other the minivans in the driveways, the tent trailers by the side of the houses. We step past the rolled up newspapers and the discount store fliers. We see the sweet and pleasant grass sticking through the melting snow of the lawn, and this we eat or consider. They are told to stay away from the windows so that we aren’t spooked. Don’t tell us about Tibet either. The non-violent self is a cow wandering from an overturned truck on the highway into a neighbourhood backyard. They do not allow the journalists in. Let me say that our udders are painful, filling with milk. There will be a white flood, filling the swimming pools, soaking the basement rec rooms, their entertainment centres and their trophies. We make calls on our cellphones, recording everything. Some look at the moon and see the face of a cow. We are not alone.
More about this here here, and here.