What do you do when...
You go to visit somebody and you are greeted by the sight of a massive dead cow strung up by chains pulled through the tendons of its legs, stretched out on the ground on its back between two trees. Its gut is ripped open, a black gaping hole framed by the arc of ribs, and the impossibly enormous mass of viscera are sitting in a grotesque puddle on the ground, intestines twisting around, swarmed over by flies. It looks as if it's been thrown and tied by some cowboy after a panicked struggle and it is still ferociously angry over it.
The cow's head is rolled back and its eyes are open in the stare of death. One leg is obviously deformed, ending in a huge ugly knob of meat and bone at the knee. A man in bloodied jeans and a wife-beater*, stringy hair tied back in a ponytail, is working intensely over it with an assortment of knives and a chainsaw, ripping off skin and hacking away at the meat. It smells horrific in the heat and the ground is puddled in reddish mud, blood mixed with dirt. As he picks up the internal organs to drop them into his truck bed, a sticky clump of partially-digested hay spills out.
That's what I saw yesterday.
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*For those non-American readers, a "wife-beater" is slang for a man's white vest. The stereotype is that that sort of garment is worn by redneck men who, among other things, beat their women. Unfortunately, in this case, it is actually true.