Bringing the Heifers In
by Susan Fay
The mud sucks at our boots as we enter the lower pasture. Libbey and Tove, the Black Angus heifers, are there, waiting.
"Oh, Libbey's halter," Don says.
What he means to say is Libbey's halter is missing. During the daytime, we leave the nylon halters on both girls to make catching them easier. Libbey, the bigger of the two, has figured out how to slip hers off.
"I know where it's at," I pipe up. "If you want to go collect Tad and Daisy's feed dishes, I’ll grab Libbey's halter and meet you back here."
Don nods, heading for the adjacent pasture, the one that houses a massive Charolais steer, Tad, and his very pregnant Charolais heifer companion, Daisy. The steer is my beef project, having received two pardons for good behavior. Unfortunately, logic dictates that Tad is on borrowed time here at the ranch. Why I ever got into beef cattle is a quandary. I love animals and Tad has an exceptionally sweet and expressive soul -- a bad combination and an even worse business proposition.
Sending my steer to auction or to someone who will not necessarily ensure a kind end is a bitter pill. Hiring a mobile butcher is the responsible, adult thing to do but every time I look at Tad -- and he meets my gaze with his curious, friendly expression -- I feel a tremendous weight settle on my chest. Right now, I'm trying to decide if the trauma of on-site slaughter outweighs an uncertain end. It's a tough decision, especially for me. I probably should have opted to raise fiber animals.
This is what I think as I collect Libbey and Tove's feed dishes, set them outside the fence, and make my way to a long tall pole, one that, until recently, supported a multi-compartment bird house. Lying on the ground, blades of grass sprouting up around it like a monument to something deceased and properly buried, lies the nylon halter. Smiling at the sight, I think of my enterprising Libbey, a gal who has figured out how to use this pole to neatly slip off her unwelcome, unwanted instrument of bondage.
Thankful for gloves, I collect the thing up in my hands. It's slippery, all right, and coated in a mixture of mud and manure. The stink of it makes me wonder why Tove hasn't ditched her halter, too, and how on earth am I going to convince Libbey to wear a thing so vile? Thankfully, Libbey does not share my sentiments.
She's waiting near the gate and as I step up, she moves closer and stretches her short neck toward the beast of a thing in my hands. Gingerly, I open the noseband up, slipping it over Libbey's soft, warm muzzle. For a moment, and as I move the other loop of the rope halter over Libbey's oh so soft ears, I know what it's like to touch God. Here I am reaching through space and time and this divine of divine creatures is willingly stretching to meet me.
Softly speaking to Libbey, I gently pat her forehead and carefully adjust the smelly halter. I catch Tove's lead rope and pass it to Don, who has returned from his mission in Charolais territory. Together, we walk the Black Angus heifers to the small covered arena, where a straw bedded corral, ample hay, and fresh water await my girls.
~~~
Copyright 2012, Susan Fay -- If you would like to reprint this very short story or use the photo, please contact me at susan.fay@coho.net.
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