This joyful cow is a role model for all suicidal "food" animals. She dances not in spite of the effort to annihilate her, but because of it.
Her masters do not sugar-coat it for her—there is no need to. Forget the "happy meat" charade, the smiling assurances that all is well on the farm, that the animals are free to live in blessed ignorance of their fate, that they enjoy all the elbow room, sunshine, and delicious fare this animal-loving world has to offer. Her masters don't need to stoop to that. Their every word to her is eulogy.
With her light steps, and that horn in her hands, she resembles no one so much as Pan, shepherd-god of the Greeks. That old faun, drunk with appetite and the means of satisfying it, capers and leers.
It is only through the weird alchemy of suicide food that the pleasure principle—the endless joy to be found in lustful living, in the carnal—becomes an impulse to self-destruction, to carnage.
A lust for life blossoms into a death wish as the sacred rites of suicidefoodism are celebrated.
Dance on, simple one. Dance on.