My cousins, sisters, and I sat in the kitchen, talking excitedly. We had recently learned we were getting a baby cow.

“What should we name him?” my cousin Nathaniel asked.

“Jack!”

“Gary!”

“Dinner!”

Finally, I suggested “Lincoln.” It was unanimous. We would be raising Lincoln.

Our parents had told us long beforehand that Lincoln would not be around forever. The point of getting him was to eat him. We said we understood, but I know that I at least did not really think about it. The excitement of having a cute addition to our farm made me overlook the part about eating him. On our farm, everyone forms tight bonds with the animals. My mom can walk outside, say, “Hey, babies,” and get a chorus of excited baas, clucks, and eager llama eyes in response. We love our animals as others love their pets.

The spring night Lincoln arrived was exhausting. All he did was cry. Loudly. We had to bottle feed him, but he wouldn’t take the bottle. Eventually I climbed into the pen with the five-day-old calf and sweet-talked him into taking the bottle. Sadly, being gifted with Lincoln gave me full responsibility for his feedings. I hated the chores, but I formed a strong bond with him through all the secrets I told him and our inside jokes. He would eat my hair and lick my face when I fed him. The idea that I would eventually be eating spaghetti with Lincoln-meatballs had not sunk in.

When he got a bit bigger, we would play tag. He would chase us around his pen, and it was actually a bit scary. My cousin Adam, who was six, almost got run over by Lincoln. Whenever we had to leave, he would follow us with sad eyes like a little kid being dropped off at his first day of kindergarten. I firmly believe that Lincoln loved us just as we loved him. Some people would scoff at this and say, “Animals can’t have those feelings.” However through my first-hand experiences seeing horses break down fences in order to join their friends or goats trying to follow me inside, I know animals form strong bonds with humans. Lincoln considered us his family as much as a cow is able to.

The idea of raising him for slaughter hit my cousin Nathaniel first and hardest. He started telling all who would listen, “We are not eating Lincoln. He is part of the family. I don’t care how big and smelly he gets, we are not eating him.” We all agreed he was part of the family, but we didn’t see the big deal about eating him. The next person it hit was my sister Rebecca. She told my mom and dad if Lincoln meat ended up on her plate she wouldn’t eat it.

I never acted as extreme as Rebecca and Nathaniel, but it did bother me. I remember when it finally hit me that we were raising him for slaughter. I was feeding Lincoln over the fence, and his tongue was chasing the bucket of food. He licked my hand, and I could feel the roughness of his tongue. I laughed and said, “Lincoln, I’m about to feed you! Calm down.”

I had been the one to feed him from day one, and I was his family. How could I eat him? Yes, I realized I was lucky to know where my food came from and that it was loved and treated well, but that almost made it harder. Every time I looked at spaghetti I would hear his low, mournful moo and feel his tongue on my hand. I was confused about what to feel.

Lincoln got too big for his pen, and we put him in with an older sheep. They fell in love like teenagers. Sadly, when she died, Lincoln became depressed and lonely. I would hear him call for her at dinner every night. The sound broke my heart, but it really opened my eyes. Love is not just a human emotion. Everyone loves, including animals.

The day Lincoln left, I wasn’t home. I’m glad because I know I couldn’t have watched him being taken away. I am forever thankful for the experience of raising him. I got to see where my food comes from, and I got to form a unique bond not many get to experience. But Lincoln gave me more than just an experience. His presence on our farm opened my eyes that the gap between the human and animal world isn’t that big after all.

We loved Lincoln, and he loved us. I am so glad I got to raise him, and I look forward to raising “Cow Ripken” next spring.