Goodbye, Daddy Bull

Yesterday I had the distinct privilege of washing out the inside of a stock trailer; its four walls coated with dried on, well, bull shit. It was another first for me, and of all the things I did yesterday, it was the most relaxing, enjoyable and satisfying, by far. It was an afternoon I wasn’t expecting to apply toward the ranch, but an emergency–a rusted out hot water heater–brought me home early, only to find upon arrival that my father in law had taken care of it. He and my wife went to town for a new tank, and I, to justify my absence from school, stayed home with our youngest, to wait for the busload of our other three kids to return home from school. So we did the chore of cleaning out the trailer. My neighbor’s stock trailer, made for horses, specifically. But for beggars and borrowers, it will do just fine for cattle. In this case, our bull, whose time on the ranch had run out, in the interest of genetics, of keeping the gene pool from getting too shallow. We’ve kept his daughters as replacement heifers for two years now and you don’t want to get much shallower than that.

Sunday, we loaded him up and drove him down to Davenport–a 3 hour drive when you’re not towing a massive, agitated bovine. It took over four hours to get there, all the while remarking on how sad it was to put him up for auction. This ranch never has been in the practice of naming the stock, but my family seems to have changed that for the time being, anyway. This bull had two names: TJ (tough joe) and Daddy Bull, names given to him by my eldest and youngest daughters, respectively. My wife kept hoping out loud that there would be someone at the sale who would buy him to keep working–he’s only five or six years old. But, sadly, the auction is where most bulls go to be sold to the processor for ground beef. Yet still we hoped, and still do. But we’ll probably figure it out once the check comes in the mail sometime this week.

Upon arriving at the stockyard, we were taken aback by the desolati

on of it all. There was not scope or scale to it–just acres of interconnected corrals that created an indistinct jumble of wood and iron and steel. It was also almost uninhabited by people. It was actually quite eerie. One rig was unloading when we got there–two cows and calf of some small heritage breed. They were pint sized compared to TJ, and they were being released from a homemade stock trailer by on older gentleman with a significan

t beard and a worn work clothes. A sturdy looking younger guy behind one of corral panels was talking casually on the phone. I didn’t know what to do and there didn’t seem to be any office to inquire within. So I stood watching, waiting for some signal, which came when the guy got off the phone and said, “You unloading?” I said yes and he told me

to pull in behind him–signalling toward the homemade trailer. By the time I’d started my truck and gotten into position, we were alone again: Nicholas, Emma Lena, Tera and I. The stable guy had disappeared into the jumble. The air was thick-dense with sounds and smells–bawling and mooing and manure. We walked back toward some corrals and watched anxious mixed breed beef cows pace. It was hard to see. There are things about industry that just bother a person. I have a few cows and a chunk of land to support them. I sell their offspring directly to people who have a similar view of quality and value that doesn’t involve top dollar or marbled grain. People who love knowing where their beef came from. That it never even sniffed corn, only ate grass and alfalfa its whole life. Never got poked with a needle other than the necessary vaccinations at the onset of its life. That someone like my wife cared for like a child while on our ranch.

And that’s when we saw the stable guy reemerge, speaking unceremon

iously about setting him free. It was beginning to feel like a mistake, like sacrilege–submitting our gentle young bull to this gauntlet, but of course I opened the gate and let him out of the trailer. He was wary, just barely poking his massive red snout out for a whiff. Then, almost resignedly, he stepped out–front legs then rear–and ambled through the chute, into the abyss.

Okay, that’s too much! It wasn’t nearly that melodramatic. But then, maybe it was. Across the way from me, Tera and the kids were lined up along the blue tubular steel swinging panel, looking like witnesses to an unjust execution. My wife’s face flushed with emotion–eyes welled with tears. Man, it was awful, actually. And if that makes me sound melodramatic, well then so be it. I handed the guy a ticket I’d brought with his breed and brand information written on it. He gave me a carbon copy of it. And we were done. That was it. “Let’s go.” I tried swing around so I could witness any mistreatment once they were out of sight. But there wasn’t any fuss. Just the sound of a man gently goading, “Hey, bull.”

We loaded back into the truck and pulled away. The emotions exhibited by this rancher and his family at that point, will remain unstated, but implied.

The drive home was much quicker, and quieter, than the trip down.