Once upon a time, there were fields in which the cash cows grazed. The cows did not produce cash, but they produced milk, which could be exchanged for cash. This cash was the cause of much discussion and philosophising amongst the owners of the cows and the government, whose task it was to collect the milk and use the proceeds to benefit all.
As you can imagine, this led to heated arguments among owners and governments. The cows themselves were more concerned about figuring out where the best patches of grass were, how they could find the shadiest spots, and how to avoid the fences the owners and governments insisted on erecting, often for their own good, but not always, which is where it gets tricky.
In the field we are interested in, three cows, Frankie, Msizi, and Faith, grazed. They were considered free-market cows, not only because they roamed freely across the range, but because the farm produced milk, largely without restraint from the government which was only asked for security assistance and emergency medical support. The farmer sold the milk at a price he set, but was guided by supply-and-demand dynamics, efficient resource allocation, and innovation. Compared to the cows in the fields around them, Frankie, Msizi and Faith appeared fat and full of milk.
Discussion
Our three cows liked to gather under the big tree at the top of the hill. On a sunny day, you could trace the stream from the top and watch it twist and turn into a river providing water to all the lands in the valley. Much cud was chewed over important matters on these occasions. Frankie swallowed a large bolus and cleared his throat.
“Can I be forthright? Blunt, even?” he asked. “It is your way, to be frank, Frank,” said Msizi. Frank said he was worried that their farm would soon come to harm in the same way as the lands to their left. He had noticed those cows were not as happy and well-fed as he was. Over time, more fences were erected, and the cows of many farms were kept in one barn. Instead of milk being sold privately to whoever wanted it, the government decided how to distribute it. Curiously, this resulted in the cows being milked dry, plus fewer people receiving milk – at the same time. “It is called socialism,” said Msizi.
Frank scoffed, burping loudly: “Should be called stupidism! The fattest cows producing the most methane are the most mootivated and superiorest cows! That should be clear for all the dumbasses to see! Help me out if I am wrong here?” Mzi, who always argued from firm foundations, offered a more tolerant perspective. “That is not the most productive way of thinking about it, Frank,” said Mzi, ‘but then, neither is socialism. It is one of those ideas that sounds great but turns out terrible. Government interference halts the potential progress gained when private farms are allowed to experiment with different models of production. The idea is not ‘wrong’ it is just inefficient. Under socialism, governments become bigger and even more bloated than you, Frank, which is saying something!”
Frank bellowed in protest. “If you want hot air, I’ll show you hot air!” he mooed and passed a mighty wind, the volume of which caused a temperature increase in Iceland overnight.
Next morning
The next morning Frank and Faith walked to the big tree at the top of the hill which overlooked all the valleys on a sunny day. Msizi was not there. They traced the river through the valleys searching for their friend, but to no avail. Msizi had been expropriated. The matter of whether the farmer had been offered no compensation or nil compensation was the topic of much regurgitation at the drinking trough for days to come.
“Those bastards!” wailed Frank. ‘We have to fight back! This is not a good sign. I wonder if I’ll get expropriated next?” Faith patted Frank on the back (well, technically clomped him on the back, because of hooves): “Never lose hope!” said Faith. “There is always something that can be done. Mammals are resourceful creatures, hardwired for progress, even though they don’t always agree on what that looks like!”
The remaining cows noticed they could no longer roam as freely as before. New fences kept being erected by order of the government, slowing the cash cows down and costing the farmer a fortune. The cash cows no longer grazed on whatever grass they found. They had to eat pellets given to them by the government. Some cows thought this was more equal, but the cows used to feeding organically had a different opinion. “Idiots!” bayed Frank. “Can’t they see that allowing competition and liberty in how you manage cash cows encourages variety in the types of grass you can grow and thus more cows get better fed in the end? This results in more milk and better-quality milk!”
Faith agreed: “That is a good message, Frank!” he said. “It is the type of message that might start as a stream on top of a hill and becomes stronger as it crinkles its way through the dales and gorges of the lands until it is a mighty river that changes the landscape!”
Abattoir
One day, Faith walked to the big tree at the top of the hill overlooking all the valleys. The sun was not shining that day. Frank was gone. The good news was that he was not expropriated. But the birds in the big tree tweeted that he was spotted on the way to the abattoir. Due to the high cost of fences, the farmer had stopped selling milk and was now selling meat. Frank was now a fillet.
The cash cows in our field were unsure about what to do about their future. They lacked opposable thumbs, so their capacity to effect change directly was limited, but not nil, and not none.
“All is not lost,” said Faith. “There is always something that can be done. Hope is not passive, it flows.” An economic wedge here, a well-placed whisper in the government’s ear there – a tiny pivot can become a powerful fulcrum for a change in direction. It might be presented as a donation to a think-tank, a letter to the editor or leading by example; everyone has influence as a form of leverage.
Faith had four legs and she used them. She carefully hoofed a pebble into the stream. A strategic diversion can redirect the flow of a mighty river and define its course. And everything remained as it always was, and nothing would ever be the same again.
Moo!
The views of the writer are not necessarily the views of the Daily Friend or the IRR.
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