“Some wild stuff.”
The brother said it passively, but with a hint of grit, like a pinch of coarse salt, to add an extra zing to his voice. His voice was strained slightly, perhaps due to the dust from the field, or because they had stayed up late watching Clint grimace clever one-liners and before shooting anyone who dared stare down his barrel of truth and justice. The two sat on a cattle guard west of the operation taking place at the corral. The cattle were anxious—hesitant to proceed towards the whistling cowboys at the opposite end of a narrow chute. The chute wasn’t usually so terrifying. But the cattle felt the heat, and could smell the blood of unlucky others who had been caught in between the cowboys. Two cowboys on horseback were on the opposite side, goading the cattle forward. Some stood their ground; others, consumed by fear, turned and ran down the chute. Those unlucky enough to get “squeezed” were compressed by a mechanical contraption nearly midway through the passage.
“I’ve never seen them treat the cattle like that.”
The cowboys whistled to each other, coordinating every move—they were always many steps ahead of the terrified beasts inside the pen. But one cowboy was a novice, looking quickly to others for feedback and insight into what he should do and where he should go. Since no bulls were in the pen, he felt emboldened to do anything that was asked of him. Do you want him to jump on the cow’s back to administer an ear piercing? He’ll do it without question. Labeling every creature with its number, which, ultimately, became the young cow’s name for the rest of her life—just a number, administered by someone with purpose. Others are rarely built for this job. In fact, one kid died last year in an accident. They say he was too bold in the pen. He lost track of his surroundings; the cattle began circling him instead of the other way around.
“How many more do they have until it’s done?”
The babies were held in a separate pen. They bawled for their mothers who were reeling in fear. A calf’s fear touches it differently than it does adults; it’s a familiar emotion, but still new to them, at least, that’s what the boy felt as he watched them cry. They just don’t know when to stop, as it’s not in them to stop. The cattle could still see their babies as the cowboys brand and number them, but that’s also by design. One cowboy commented that it’s a good practice for the families to see each other, but the boy fidgeted uncomfortably watching the process unfold. He wished he could turn them off—even for just a moment—to free them from the stress that they had to experience during their processing. It’s one thing to see your family treated this way; it’s another to witness someone else’s family treated this way—even from another species. The boy nearly chastised his brother for smiling and cheering after they completed a particularly stubborn bull calf.
“I think that I want to be a vet.”
The cowboys departed after processing every cow and bull. The mood was good; the younger cowboy helped with separating several calves from their mothers, and administered several tags on his own, which surprised no one. In fact, secretly, the cowboys had experienced rookie rodeos enough to know what they’d pick up versus what they would not pick up early in their tenure. The boy who watched everything unfold stayed behind, telling his older brother that he needed to pee before following them home. On his way towards the cattle that were sauntering someplace more peaceful, he picked up a stone and hurled it at the barn behind him, rattling it against the tin roof noisily. He turned around and drew a deep breath, smelling the cow manure and fresh rain in the air. He loved it there: the ranch, the smell, but most of all, the opportunity to make a difference.