“Yes, I was there. I witnessed it. When we bought it, I was with him,” his wife affirmed.
“Our cow looked more like that one,” Kaban said, pointing to another cow being ridden by another family nearby. “Not like this one!”
Kaban shuddered as he looked at the cow in front of him. It was emaciated, nearly devoid of flesh, with only bones wrapped in dry, dull skin. Even its tail was wrinkled and hairless. Most disturbingly, the cow had no head—just a body and spindly legs.
“If this is our cow, then where is its head?” Kaban’s wife asked.
“You burned the head yourselves. Then you ate it with your chosen friends, celebrating your feast.”
Kaban and his wife looked at each other, then held hands.
“But if this is indeed our cow, why is it so thin and bony? Why are its legs so frail, almost fleshless?” Kaban questioned.
“Maybe you forgot, you selected and cooked the best parts of the cow for yourselves. You made rendang, you made jerky, you made soup, you even tried making steaks. Who knows what else you made. Then you ate it all yourselves, enjoying it until your bellies were full.”
“But according to our religious scholars, we are allowed to take a third of the sacrificial meat for ourselves,” Kaban said.
“Yes, you are allowed. But you are not required to, correct?”