Theme 3: Food

How the Other Half Lives

Two hooves stuck out at awkward angles, each tied to a rope. Farm hands held the other end of the line; with every contraction, they pulled. “Come on! You can do it!” they called encouragingly to the mother—a black-and-white cow named Luma. 

Then, all at once, the calf spilled to the ground. “It’s a girl!” one woman cried. 

Luma turned to meet her daughter. Carefully, she licked her from head to toe, wiping her into shape and waking her to the world.

A few hours later, the farm hands returned—this time, to take Luma away. She protested before reluctantly turning towards the milking parlour—her umbilical cord still trailing behind.

**

The cow has become a symbol of animal agriculture gone wrong. And yet, many of us support the industry—myself included. So, I decided to run an experiment: what would it take to convince me otherwise? This is an attempt to answer that question—through my story and Luma’s. 

Luma and her calf—moments after birth.

When it comes to cows and I, it’s complicated. 

As a kid, I’d come home from soccer practice—sweaty, dirty, with grass prints on my knees—grab a 4-litre jug of 2%, rip off the pink cap, and start chugging. Next, I’d refuel on macaroni and cheese. 

But in high school, I heard the Amazon was being cut down for cattle. A rainforest is rich with wildlife—hundreds of thousands of birds, beasts, and reptiles. Replacing them with a single variable—the cow—didn’t compute. 

In university, I read The Oil We Eat, which calculated the feed, water, and energy required for cattle. It’s estimated that there are 1.57 billion cows worldwide; in terms of biomass, they are our other half. Again, the numbers didn’t make sense.

I was still grappling with the math when I met Dr. Jennie Moore, an ecological footprint expert. This spawned the Lighter Footprint App, a BC-based footprint calculator, planner, and tracker; while working on it, I learned a lot.

Beef is the biggest contributor to one’s food footprint; it requires more resources—land, feed, energy—than any other food (plus, cows belch methane).

Cheese is up there, too; making one kilogram of cheese takes ten times the milk. I was particularly alarmed when I saw what Moore considered one serving: 50 grams, the equivalent of a pair of dice. 

Though the footprint of beef and cheese can vary, the final tally was conclusive: raising so many cows for so many people was an unsustainable equation. 

So I decided to cut back. Beef was easy—cheese, not so much. 

**

My husband is from the Netherlands. When he first came to Canada, cheese was a culture shock. “You call this cheese?” he complained when we first met.

He had planned to travel to Australia next, but I was determined to make him stay. After work, I biked out to a specialty cheese store; that evening, I presented him with a platter. He was like a kid at Christmas. “Wow!” he said, spooning himself some Bleu de Basque, “I can’t believe you can buy this here!” I blushed, pleased it was all going according to plan. I didn’t tell him it had cost me a small fortune.

By the time my husband caught on, it was too late—we were married. But a steady supply of cheese was an implicit part of the marriage contract. Our fridge was always full of it; it was hard not to indulge. 

**

Recently, my husband and I moved to the Netherlands for a year. Now that I’ve spent more time in his native land, I understand where his love of cheese comes from.

En route from the airport, we passed countless fields of cows, most of which are for milking. Down the street from my in-laws, there’s a dairy farm. In the Dutch tradition of ‘borrel,’ cheese is served before dinner—and again for dessert. 

All this to say that the Dutch love dairy. Surrounded by so much cheese, I ate more than ever before. 

Cheese at a local market in Groningen, the Netherlands. 

I started my experiment by reading about animal agriculture. But I quickly realized knowledge isn’t enough. Knowing something’s bad—for my health, the cow, or the planet—wouldn’t stop me from eating it.

Here’s why: imagine our brains are made up of two parts—the elephant and the rider. The more emotional, intuitive part is the elephant, and the more rational, verbal part is the rider. You can picture the elephant—big, strong, and smart—on the bottom, with the rider perched on top. 

When we make judgements, the elephant lights up first and the rider second. By the time the rider gets involved, the call has largely been made. Though the rider can sometimes steer, often, it’s just along for the ride.

Reading about animal agriculture was like making my case to the rider. And while she could have been convinced, it’s my elephant’s vote that counts.

**

Elephants are moved by what they see, hear, and feel, so I started watching footage of factory farms. They disgusted me, but the feeling didn’t last.

Sitting by the cheese at my nephew’s birthday party, I started salivating. To distract myself, I popped a tomato in my mouth; realizing it had a bit of cheese on it, I rejoiced at my good fortune. 

Cheese contains casein, which has a calming, pleasurable effect. One study said cheese was almost as addictive as soda; reading about it made my mouth water. My elephant wasn’t just hungry—she was hooked.

**

Then I watched Cow—the story of a cow called Luma.

Luma.

Coming back from the milking parlour, Luma found her calf curled in the hay. They spent an evening together before being separated again. This time, for good. 

The farm hands circled Luma with their arms wide, blocking her from her calf. The cow’s such a gentle creature; even though Luma was bigger than they, this was enough to hold her back. 

The farmer shooed Luma’s calf out of the pen. She kept stumbling and turning back towards her mother, but he kept nudging her along. They arrived at a small enclosure with a plastic igloo-like shelter. Here, the calf would stay. 

Luma called, and called, and called—mooing what sounded like an alarm—over and over and over. The next scene was of her at the feeding bin. While all the other cows were munching pensively or face-deep in grain, Luma stood still. Then, she turned and pressed her head against her neighbour—as if looking for comfort from a friend. 

“She can’t eat,” said my husband, “It’s so sad.”

He had agreed to watch a documentary about cows—but only if he could decide which one. Compared to Cowspiracy and other films, Cow had seemed benign. I could see he was beginning to regret his choice. 

In the dairy industry, it’s common practice to separate mother and calf after 24 hours. Some say it prevents them from forming a deeper bond, which would be harder to break later. But it’s also economical: if you keep them together, the calf will drink the milk. 

The Netherlands has a three-star system called Beter Leven (“Better Life”), which is labelled on most animal products. For three-star beef, the cow and calf must be kept together for six months. However, for three-star dairy, it’s suggested (not required) that they be together for three. In Canada, there’s no equivalent system.

One-star Beter Leven milk. One-star cows and calves are separated shortly after birth.

Two farm hands collected Luma’s calf from her pen. They injected her with a painkiller, which left a tiny spot of red on her milky-white cheek. Then, they wedged her head between two metal bars, held her fast, and brought a hand-held machine with a blunt cone tip—whirring angrily—to her face. 

They drove the machine into her skull on one side where a horn would someday be. There was burning and blood, and the calf, wide-eyed, thrashed its tiny legs in panic. The farm hands cooed, trying to calm it down. Then they did the other side. 

Most cows have horns—even the girls. To make them safer to work with, calves are cauterized with a hot iron to destroy cells that would otherwise become horns. 

My husband and I paused the documentary to get a drink. When we sat back down, he stopped me.

“I don’t think I can watch this,” he said. “Why?” I asked. 

“It’s too good,” he replied.

I knew exactly what he meant. It reminded me of a quote from Jacob A. Riis, who worked to improve the lives of the urban poor. Riis said seeing “how the other half lives” confronts you with the question: “What are you going to do about it?”

On some level, my husband and I knew we were seeing things we couldn’t unsee, which might prompt us to do things we didn’t want to do.

“Embrace it,” I told him.

The dairy farm down the road from my in-laws.

Luma waddled to the milking parlour. Her body looked like any new mother’s: soft, sagging, full. Thinking of the emotional rollercoaster that accompanies birth, I wondered how she felt. When the milking machine was pulled off, Luma gave it a kick. 

Soon, the vet paid her a visit. Armed in elbow-high gloves, he stuck a hand inside her. Luma flattened her ears against her head—like my dog does when displeased. “She’s recovering nicely—let’s get her cycling again,” said the vet before giving her a hormone injection. 

The next scene showed Luma mounting other cows in a hormone-fuelled haze. Then, she was put in a pen with a bull. The vet returned for another check. “Pregnant!” he declared. 

Human mothers can produce milk for a long time. In some cultures, the weaning process can take four years. Some say there is no medical reason why women could not lactate indefinitely.

With cows, it’s different. Cows produce milk for about 10 months; after that, they stop. This means dairy cows like Luma have to get pregnant over and over again in order to keep producing. 

**

As I watched Luma’s life unfold, the word “dehumanizing” came to mind. Though the term excludes animals, it felt fitting: cows aren’t things; they’re beings.

“Is this a factory farm?” my husband asked. I was unsure; it was hard to tell.

Cue spring. The next scene was of the cows lined up—stomping, excited—at the gate, raring to go. 

“It’s not!” I cried. “The cows go outside!”

The Dutch have a springtime tradition called Koeien in de Wei (“Cows in the Meadow”). It’s the first time the cows are let out after wintering indoors. People go to watch; it’s especially popular with kids. In the Netherlands, 74% of cows graze at least 6 hours a day, 120 days a year. In Canada, it’s 29%. 

On Luma’s farm, the cows streamed out to pasture. Compared to her, the rest of the herd seemed nondescript. But of course, each one could be the hero of their own film—just like Luma. 

We watched Luma sit under the stars. Her eyes were peaceful and serene; it was beautiful to see.

Luma out in the fields.

The next time Luma gave birth, my husband and I were prepared. So was Luma—she’d had five babies so far; this was her sixth. When the farm hands tried to take the calf away, Luma rammed her head into the camera—if she’d had horns, this could have been deadly. “She didn’t use to be so protective,” said the farmer.  

My husband groaned. “I can tell you one thing: there’s no way I’m going to a grocery store and getting milk right now,” he said.

I noticed he didn’t say “cheese.” 

**

Being pregnant so many times was hard on Luma. In the later half of the film, her udders were huge. When milked, she had to stand on wooden blocks; otherwise, her teats were too close to the ground.  

In the pursuit of more milk, cows have been overbred and overworked to the detriment of their health. In the 1950s, cows lived 30 years. Today, in the Netherlands and Canada, it’s 5.5.

One day, the farmer took Luma out of her pen. She stumbled, barely able to walk. He brought her to another barn; on the way, she looked at where the calves were held. 

Once there, the farmer gave Luma a bucket of grain. When she’d had her fill, he came back, put a gun to her head, and fired a shot. 

My husband and I watched as Luma fell to the ground, shuddered, and lay still. The last scene was of her body in an otherwise beautiful setting, with warm sunlight making the hay glow gold. 

The credits ran. I put my head in my hands and bawled. 

“Why are you crying?” asked my husband. Of all the ends a cow could come to, this seemed to him like the best possible outcome. 

But to me, it felt wrong, perhaps because it revealed what Luma really was: just a means to an end. “I’m mourning her,” I told my husband. “No one else did.”

Most dairy cows are butchered for low-quality meat. The hides are sometimes used for leather—though it’s the male dairy calves that provide the best ones since their short lives ensure their skins are blemish-free.

Previously, I’d thought dairy was somewhat innocuous—after all, the cow didn’t need to be killed, only milked. Reading the reviews, it seemed others thought the same. Luma’s farmer had let cameras on his property because he had nothing to hide—his farm was one of the good ones. If you don’t like it, he said, “don’t drink milk.”

**

Numbers—like the number of dairy cows—can be numbing. But meeting just one, up close, did something different: it created commonality, closeness, and a connection. And in the end, this was the best way to reach my elephant.

When starting this experiment, I thought I’d cut back—not cut out—cheese. But since seeing ‘Cow,’ I haven’t had dairy (or, coincidentally, any pimples). Regardless of how the cows are treated, milking them requires a sacrifice. And right now, with Luma on my mind, this feels like too much to ask. 

In some ways, cutting out cheese has been difficult. Food feels tribal and unites friends, families, and cultures. To reject food feels rude and, in this case, like a moral judgment. But in other ways, it’s been easy. Having to decide over and over is more taxing than deciding once. 

“You should watch Cow,” I told my parents, “It’s beautiful and moving.” They looked at me with slight suspicion—perhaps afraid to see things they couldn’t unsee. 

I recommend everyone watch it. But if you do, be warned—when you see how the other half lives, you may be confronted with the question: “What are you going to do about it?”


Addendum

Though it feels good to forgo cheese, it likely won’t last. Here are some resources I’ve found—for now and for later:

Brigitte Gemme of Vegan Family Kitchen has some tips on going cheese-free, plus plant-based alternatives:

While Canada doesn’t have a system quite like Beter Leven, dairy with the Canada Organic and Certified Humane logos come from farms that treat their cows better than average—with more space per pen and access to pasture. That said, calves are still separated from their mothers within 24 hours and debudding (cauterizing cells that would otherwise become horns) is allowed. Here are a few certified organic brands:

Regenerative farms have a lower footprint overall due to practices that help restore the soil. There are a couple of regenerative dairy farms in BC, but unfortunately, their products are only available on-site:

Otherwise, there are many small-scale dairy farms across the province—and some may be doing things differently. Do you know of a dairy that does? Please let me know below.

What do you think?

Thoughts, ideas, and suggestions welcome.