Carnivorous Cow

Among the dead forests awaiting the Cow on her return from the floods was a mail-merged glossy letter asking the Cow, as an alumna, to join the continuing struggle by donating generously to the University.

"Tsk, tsk!" she shook her head at Gramsci. "You'd think someone somewhere would spot that the address was a Campus address, and realise that they're squeezing blood from a turnip here. Surely you address calls for cash to those that have it to give, not those about whom you have hard evidence of their financial situation?"

Gramsci chuckled. He'd heard the anecdotes about the conference delegates on Durban beachfront who, when approached by the child sex workers, admitted that they were academics, and were told sympathetically, "never mind, we know you don't have the money".

"You could always make a donation in kind," he suggested. "Inform them that you're contracted to work 37.5 hours per week, and tell them to consider the additional hours you work your contribution to their fundraising efforts!"

The Cow paused. It would be possible, she supposed, to work out her hourly rate and put a pricetag on that, but she'd have to wait until she was in overtime to do that so as not to be seen to be abusing the University's paid time in doing so. The beancounters who ran things were rather picky that way.

"Still," she remarked, "it's nice to see that the slogan has improved. 'Changing minds. Changing Futures' is a lot better than 'Changing minds. Changing Histories' as the 175th anniversary asserted. The underlying assumption behind the 175th was revisionist enough as it was, without compounding it by such a heinous slogan."

Gramsci nodded. "Yes," he agreed, "you don't want parents forewarned that this is a Chinese-style re-education camp, however attractive that idea might be to the State."

The Cow blanched. "Let's not give them any ideas!" she muttered hastily. "We already have Kwality Assurance seeking to beancount everything. Next we'll have to have our course outlines, our handouts, and our lecture scripts signed off by some bureaucracy after vetting for ideological appropriateness. And videotapes of our classes compared with those to ensure that nothing unapproved snuck in."

But Gramsci was still pondering the new slogan. "I wonder who convinced the author to change it?" he asked. "None of the criticism seemed to be heard, first time around."

"Who knows?" the Cow shrugged. "Maybe he simply changed his mind?"

Gramsci conceded the point. "And no doubt his history, too!" he added.  

It was only when she looked for the spade that was no longer there that the Cow realised she'd become a statistic.

"Can you believe?" she asked Gramsci, gobsmacked. "Someone stole my spade!"

"It happens," Gramsci shrugged, sending a Mexican wave through his eight shoulders. "Even if crime firgures are rather contested."

The Cow snorted. "That's not the point!" She roled her eyes. "The spade was standing outside in the garden. Next to an inflatable dinghy and a couple of paddleskis. Why take the spade? The vleicraft would have been much more fun!"

"Perhaps a spade was more useful to them?" asked Gramsci. "Perhaps they saw it standing there, unused, while they had a pressing need for a spade?"

"Yes, but!" the Cow huffed impatiently. "That suggests that the criminal mind is motivated by  noble imperatives, like labour and cultivation, rather than by greed and deviousness. That can't possibly be. It might lead one to think that crime in this country is sometimes the last resort of desperate unemployed people with dependents to feed and clothe, rather than the easy option of williewerkies who want the trappings of affluence without any effort. And then the economy of Perth would collapse!"

Gramsci chuckled. "Well," he suggested, "perhaps he just had a body he needed to dispose of in a hurry?"