Page 45 - Fables volume 3

After a minute of this he shook himself and apparently resumed
his normal state of consciousness.
Annabelle could not contain herself. “Mother, Mother! Marybelle!
Are you there? Can you hear me? Please give me a sign!”
Swami Zebu blinked. “Yes, there is a sign. Two conjoined
parabolas, shining like gold.”
The girlfriends shivered with delight at this image of occult
grandeur, perhaps the gate to the Heavenly Corral at the Last
Roundup.
“But what about my mother? Is she in peace?”
“Not exactly,” said the Brahma. “Do you cows know what
happens when you go up that chute on the side of the
slaughterhouse?”
“Certainly,” said Clarabelle. “We die, quickly and painlessly.”
“Hmm.” Zebu paused, weighing his words. “Well, you may as well
learn it from me now. I cannot converse with your mother’s soul
because the static is too intense. Her earthly remains were ground up
in a gigantic vat with those of a thousand other cows, and sent in
hundreds of directions as a million little patties of flesh and filler. Her
voice is drowned in a cacophony of bawling, lowing cattle,
fragmented and incoherent. Your mother is in pieces, not at peace.”
Annabelle was devastated. She turned her head, refusing to be
consoled by Clarabelle. The trio trod heavily back to their usual
haunts, sobered by the experience. Isabelle, the cynic, racked her
brain for something helpful to say.
Finally it came to her. “Buck up, Annabelle. I’m sure he says that
to all the girls.”

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