Egon and the Two-Faced Cow
Jillian Wardell | Fiction, Summer 2026
The two-faced calf arrived earlier than expected. Molly was predicted to go into labour in the early hours of the morning, but shortly after sunset there were two damp faces and four damp eyes staring up at them from the straw. Its legs, thin and long like a black and white spider, moved fitfully against the floor of the barn. Mother and Father talked quietly about killing it.
“Christ, Laurel,” Father said, his voice thick from tobacco smoke and whiskey burns, “it’d be the kind thing to do to just put it out of its misery.”
“No one around here’s ever got one, though,” Mother said, voice tight from sciatica and a long day of hard labour. Her back played up most in the morning, she said, and after that she got on with it. That was why Egon did the milking. “People will want to see it first,” she said, hand pressed hard to her lower back. “It can die later.”
Egon listened to them conspiring in silence. They never spoke to him anymore. They figured that if he didn’t talk then he probably didn’t understand, but he did. Just because words were hard to get out didn’t mean they were hard to take in.
The calf looked up at him, eyes black and glinting with amber lamplight, and he heard Father argue that he should just go get his gun. A bullet to the head, that was all it would take, and then they could put the body out for the coyotes and be done with it. Mother didn’t want it to be a bullet. She wanted Doc Horner to come down and at least see the creature before it died.
“It might be worth some money,” Mother said. “We could sell it to one of them circuses that has fetuses in bottles. Bet they never had one neither.”
Father scowled at her. “What do you know about those places?” he asked. “You never been to those.”
“No, but they have fliers at the Sunday market.”
“How much would we get, you think?”
“Lots,” said Mother. “So long as you don’t go putting a hole in its head.”
Rubbing a palm over his stubble, Father peered down at the calf thoughtfully. Most calves, at least the ones Egon had seen, would have had their legs up and under them by now. Calves like this one, the kind that Egon had only ever heard of distantly and in tones of offence, weren’t so quick to manage it. If they ever did.
Bits of straw stuck to the yellow film on the calf’s body and Molly dutifully licked it clean. This would be her fourth—or fourth and fifth depending on how you looked at it. She knew what to do and the second face didn’t put her off the way it did Mother and Father.
“Nah,” said Father. “If they want it then they can take it with lead in it. I’m not dragging Horner out just to look at something we already know is gonna die.”
“Can’t you just let it pass on its own?” Mother pleaded as Father started tromping back up towards the house. She followed close behind him, pulling her knit shawl tight around herself. “No one wants to look at a creature with a hole in its head!”
The screen door to the kitchen clattered shut, and Egon was alone with Molly and the calf. He felt for them. It was hard enough having one mouth that didn’t work, he couldn’t imagine having two. To be plotted against just for that wasn’t right.
The calf was still trying and failing to stand up, so Egon hitched his arms under its chest and rump to lift it up onto its freshly de-slippered hooves. It couldn’t seem to decide where the ground was, and its legs kicked limply in all directions. No good.
He straightened up, cradling the calf against his chest, and felt its flank move as it heaved air in through four flared nostrils. He didn’t think it deserved to die just for the crime of having too many faces, but he knew that a cow that couldn’t stand wouldn’t make it either way. Without milk, it wouldn’t even last until morning.
And poor Molly, whose other children had been sold or slaughtered, would have to part with another one. Grief could kill an animal if it came too soon.
Careful not to jostle the calf too much, Egon unhitched the stall door, and swung it open with his rubber boot. He took the calf out the back way, away from the house where Mother and Father were still arguing in the kitchen. Away from guns and Horner and circus bottles.
The sky to the west was still a sickly pink at its lowest point, and immediately above was a deep, honest blue. The stars were starting to show to the east, and Egon took the calf there, into the pasture where Molly spent most of her life. A shallow crick cut across the pasture and on the other side was a stretch of gnarled, lichenous trees. Egon liked to sit there with the cows in the afternoons to rest and recover from the morning chores.
Carefully, he set the calf in the grass—the only grass the calf would ever touch. Molly, who had followed close behind, lay down next to it, her backside stained pink and orange with afterbirth, and she nuzzled the calf with concern. Egon nudged the calf’s faces towards the bulbous, pink udder that protruded from beneath Molly’s belly, but the mouths were too uncoordinated. They sucked synchronously at nothing. They would not latch.
So he sat down with them and pulled the calf’s head into his lap instead. He stroked the hair where it met in the middle of her faces, and he loved her with all his might.
And then, with great care, he told her what the Sun looked like.
______________________________________
Why is this piece your Trace Fossil?
“When I was eight years old, my family moved to a property next door to a dairy farm. The cows would come right up to our fence and we spent one glorious summer with them as our closest neighbours. The next year I began to develop anxiety so debilitating that at times I could no longer speak. As a kid I was often pushed to the outer edge of my social groups and treated differently due to how I looked and how I carried myself. I couldn't do anything without being keenly aware of the opinions of others, and animals were often easier to be around than people.
These days I still feel a special fondness for cows, but I don't let my anxiety dictate what I allow myself to do anymore. To quote Star Trek (and the tattoo on my forearm), 'Perhaps you're just different. It's not a sin, you know, though you may have heard otherwise.' Connecting with other outsiders, caring about them when no one else will, is the only real way to survive. Egon certainly knows that.”
Jillian Wardell is a student at the University of Toronto studying plant biology and creative writing. With a previous degree in theatre production, she has travelled globally for work and now spends most of her time volunteering at the park right behind her apartment or locked up somewhere writing about it.
Egon and the Two-Faced Cow
Jillian Wardell | Fiction, Summer 2026
The two-faced calf arrived earlier than expected. Molly was predicted to go into labour in the early hours of the morning, but shortly after sunset there were two damp faces and four damp eyes staring up at them from the straw. Its legs, thin and long like a black and white spider, moved fitfully against the floor of the barn. Mother and Father talked quietly about killing it.
“Christ, Laurel,” Father said, his voice thick from tobacco smoke and whiskey burns, “it’d be the kind thing to do to just put it out of its misery.”
“No one around here’s ever got one, though,” Mother said, voice tight from sciatica and a long day of hard labour. Her back played up most in the morning, she said, and after that she got on with it. That was why Egon did the milking. “People will want to see it first,” she said, hand pressed hard to her lower back. “It can die later.”
Egon listened to them conspiring in silence. They never spoke to him anymore. They figured that if he didn’t talk then he probably didn’t understand, but he did. Just because words were hard to get out didn’t mean they were hard to take in.
The calf looked up at him, eyes black and glinting with amber lamplight, and he heard Father argue that he should just go get his gun. A bullet to the head, that was all it would take, and then they could put the body out for the coyotes and be done with it. Mother didn’t want it to be a bullet. She wanted Doc Horner to come down and at least see the creature before it died.
“It might be worth some money,” Mother said. “We could sell it to one of them circuses that has fetuses in bottles. Bet they never had one neither.”
Father scowled at her. “What do you know about those places?” he asked. “You never been to those.”
“No, but they have fliers at the Sunday market.”
“How much would we get, you think?”
“Lots,” said Mother. “So long as you don’t go putting a hole in its head.”
Rubbing a palm over his stubble, Father peered down at the calf thoughtfully. Most calves, at least the ones Egon had seen, would have had their legs up and under them by now. Calves like this one, the kind that Egon had only ever heard of distantly and in tones of offence, weren’t so quick to manage it. If they ever did.
Bits of straw stuck to the yellow film on the calf’s body and Molly dutifully licked it clean. This would be her fourth—or fourth and fifth depending on how you looked at it. She knew what to do and the second face didn’t put her off the way it did Mother and Father.
“Nah,” said Father. “If they want it then they can take it with lead in it. I’m not dragging Horner out just to look at something we already know is gonna die.”
“Can’t you just let it pass on its own?” Mother pleaded as Father started tromping back up towards the house. She followed close behind him, pulling her knit shawl tight around herself. “No one wants to look at a creature with a hole in its head!”
The screen door to the kitchen clattered shut, and Egon was alone with Molly and the calf. He felt for them. It was hard enough having one mouth that didn’t work, he couldn’t imagine having two. To be plotted against just for that wasn’t right.
The calf was still trying and failing to stand up, so Egon hitched his arms under its chest and rump to lift it up onto its freshly de-slippered hooves. It couldn’t seem to decide where the ground was, and its legs kicked limply in all directions. No good.
He straightened up, cradling the calf against his chest, and felt its flank move as it heaved air in through four flared nostrils. He didn’t think it deserved to die just for the crime of having too many faces, but he knew that a cow that couldn’t stand wouldn’t make it either way. Without milk, it wouldn’t even last until morning.
And poor Molly, whose other children had been sold or slaughtered, would have to part with another one. Grief could kill an animal if it came too soon.
Careful not to jostle the calf too much, Egon unhitched the stall door, and swung it open with his rubber boot. He took the calf out the back way, away from the house where Mother and Father were still arguing in the kitchen. Away from guns and Horner and circus bottles.
The sky to the west was still a sickly pink at its lowest point, and immediately above was a deep, honest blue. The stars were starting to show to the east, and Egon took the calf there, into the pasture where Molly spent most of her life. A shallow crick cut across the pasture and on the other side was a stretch of gnarled, lichenous trees. Egon liked to sit there with the cows in the afternoons to rest and recover from the morning chores.
Carefully, he set the calf in the grass—the only grass the calf would ever touch. Molly, who had followed close behind, lay down next to it, her backside stained pink and orange with afterbirth, and she nuzzled the calf with concern. Egon nudged the calf’s faces towards the bulbous, pink udder that protruded from beneath Molly’s belly, but the mouths were too uncoordinated. They sucked synchronously at nothing. They would not latch.
So he sat down with them and pulled the calf’s head into his lap instead. He stroked the hair where it met in the middle of her faces, and he loved her with all his might.
And then, with great care, he told her what the Sun looked like.
______________________________________
Why is this piece your Trace Fossil?
“When I was eight years old, my family moved to a property next door to a dairy farm. The cows would come right up to our fence and we spent one glorious summer with them as our closest neighbours. The next year I began to develop anxiety so debilitating that at times I could no longer speak. As a kid I was often pushed to the outer edge of my social groups and treated differently due to how I looked and how I carried myself. I couldn't do anything without being keenly aware of the opinions of others, and animals were often easier to be around than people.
These days I still feel a special fondness for cows, but I don't let my anxiety dictate what I allow myself to do anymore. To quote Star Trek (and the tattoo on my forearm), 'Perhaps you're just different. It's not a sin, you know, though you may have heard otherwise.' Connecting with other outsiders, caring about them when no one else will, is the only real way to survive. Egon certainly knows that.”
Jillian Wardell is a student at the University of Toronto studying plant biology and creative writing. With a previous degree in theatre production, she has travelled globally for work and now spends most of her time volunteering at the park right behind her apartment or locked up somewhere writing about it.