If you live with animals, the real question isn’t whether they can think or not. It’s “What do they think of humans?” I often find myself mulling that over when I go out to gather eggs or feed the pigs. It isn’t a personal question—Have I earned the horses’ respect?—it’s a philosophical one. Living with animals means coming to terms with who they are and what makes them tick. That’s what you want to know when you train a dog or ride a horse or try to catch a barnyard goose. At least that’s what I want to know. I live and write on a small farm in New York State, and since my work, most days, means asking questions about the world around me, I find myself wondering about the animals I live with. I take it for granted that they also wonder about me. I can see the questions in their eyes, in the tilt of their ears: Who are these humans? Why do they behave the way they do?
There’s no point asking these questions of the cattle staring at me on this warm November Sunday. They won’t answer, not in so many words. But if I ask the woman standing beside me—the cattle are staring at her too—I’m likely to find some answers. That’s because the woman is Temple Grandin.
The cattle were dozing, perhaps a hundred of them in several long pens a few minutes north of Fort Collins, Colorado. Then we showed up. The steers roused and strode toward us, following their curiosity. They would have walked right up to us, as near as their caution allowed, if they could have. They stand at the fence, head-on, impassive, like the Charolais they are—patient, buff-colored animals.
