INTRODUCTION
A few years back I was inspired by the Bush administration’s USA PATRIOT Act to write a story exploring the idea of Freedom versus Safety, taking inspiration from Benjamin Franklin’s assertion that “Those who would give up Essential Liberty to purchase a little Temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.”
I decided to set the scene on a cattle ranch, with the key members of the Bush administration represented by cowboy characters and the American people being the cattle. For authenticity’s sake, I spent a week on a working guest cattle ranch in Idaho learning to herd, rope, tag and brand cattle. Armed with this experiential knowledge I wrote the draft for my story and spent several months editing and refining it. During this time a key member of the administration resigned, which took the wind out of my sails a bit, since he was a main character in my story.
Though I originally intended to get this published during Bush’s last term, it never happened. So before we enter the new era of an Obama presidency, while the story and characters still retain some relevance, I’ll post it in weekly segments leading up to Inauguration Day.
There are many analogous references throughout the story which the clever reader should have fun deciphering. For instance, the name of the ranch is Casa Blanca which is Spanish for White House. I hope you’ll enjoy my attempt at composing this little American fable and please feel free to comment or ask questions. This is a blog after all!
CATTLE LOGIC
An American Fable
By Sue Gray
CHAPTER 1
It was early March, a thin frost lay on the pastures of the Casablanca Ranch in western Wyoming. Under a starlit sky, Bettie Alice crossed the field, her abdomen heavy with child. She walked slowly with her head down, the stiff dry grass crunching beneath her feet.
She had just reached the fence at the northwest corner of the pasture when her water broke. She stopped, surprised. It was her first pregnancy, but she knew that the warm fluid dribbling down her thighs was the signal that her child was ready to be born. The contractions began and were mild at first. Bettie turned to head back. She took a few steps, paused as a wave of pain engulfed her midsection, breathed through it, took a few more steps. The contractions were coming closer together, the pain was too much. She fell to her knees, rolled on to her side and moaned. She breathed through a few more contractions, then felt the urge to push. She held her breath, pushed hard through the pain. The feeling passed and Bettie panted until it was time to push again.
After several hours, she was near exhausted. Her tan thighs were covered in dark sticky blood, her breathing had become ragged. For all her effort, the birth wasn’t progressing well. The child was too large for her narrow loins to bear. She was alone, scared, but she knew she had to push this child out, no matter how much it hurt.
The stars faded and the purpling sky was tinged with orange and yellow on the eastern horizon. Bettie shivered in the frigid predawn breeze. She’d lost so much blood, she was tired and wanted to sleep. She felt another contraction beginning, took a deep breath and pushed with all of her remaining strength. The baby’s head appeared. Bettie took another breath, pushed again, and her child was born.
Bettie groaned and laid her head down. She had no strength left to lick the calf clean. The cow lay bleeding into the short yellowed grass, her life quietly slipping away. She had been born on this ranch, and now she would die here. Bettie took one last groaning breath and then the calf was alone. He lifted himself on unsteady legs, blinked the birth fluid out of his eyes, saw the lifeless hump of his mother’s body, and started bawling.
CHAPTER 2
A ray of sun slid between the red felt curtains and cast a slender beam of light across Walker’s eyelids. He opened his eyes, threw off the heavy quilted cover and sat up. Leaning over the pillow, he pulled the left side of the curtain wide. Just a little past dawn.
“Let’s get going Rovey,” he said to the pudgy white mutt sleeping at the foot of his bed. The dog hoisted his sagging belly off the wooden floor and stretched, then went over to the door and sat expectantly.
Shuffling into the bathroom in his undershirt and boxers, Walker did his business and washed his hands and face. He pulled a comb through his graying hair and thought again about coloring it, but figured maybe it lent an air of wisdom.
He grabbed a fresh pair of jeans off the shelf in the cavernous walk-in closet and paired it with a dark blue wool shirt. After pulling on jet black Tony Lama boots, he completed the ensemble with a white Rodeo Drive Stetson. He lifted a brown suede jacket off the hook, slung it over his shoulder and checked his look in the gilt framed wardrobe mirror. Walker grinned. Rugged sophistication. He pulled the jacket on and reached in the pockets for his leather gloves, then faced the mirror again and saluted.
Walker opened the door and Rover followed him as he crossed the foyer and walked out of the front door onto the porch looking like he’d just stepped off the set of a John Ford movie. His tall slim build and distinctive swagger added to the cowboy image. If not for his small blue eyes set too close together which made him appear vaguely ape-like, he would’ve been a casting agent’s dream.
Rich Oyster was pitching hay from the back of a pickup truck over the fence to a dozen eager horses in the corral. Rover ran up to the back of the truck barking and yelping, flinging himself into the air and snapping at every forkful of hay as it flew toward the corral. The horses shied at the dog’s aggressive antics and Oyster cursed. “Get your damn dog outta here!”
“Come on Rovey,” Walker called, “that mean Mister Pearl doesn’t want to play.” Oyster scowled. OK yeah, he knew he had a funny name, but did the stupid Texan have to press it? The fact that the dolt had a dopey nickname for everyone on the ranch was no consolation.
When Walker reached the stable, Colwell had Coattails saddled and ready as usual. “Thanks Coley,” he said and took the reins of the dark gelding from the broad shouldered black man. He rubbed the horse’s neck with his leather gloved hand and said; “Good morning, how’s my boy?”
For Walker, taking a ride around the Wyoming cattle ranch every morning fulfilled a childhood fantasy born of afterschool hours watching Bonanza, the Rifleman, and Big Valley. He had some experience with horses, having spent part of his time on the family ranch in Texas. But his daddy had been an oilman not a cattle rancher. The horses weren’t the working kind and neither it turned out, was Walker.
He had partied hard through college. Instead of developing knowledge and wisdom, he developed a drug addiction and an alcohol problem that prevented him from retaining what little he learned. If it hadn’t been for his family’s generous donations to the University, he wouldn’t have graduated. He joined the National Guard to escape Viet Nam, but couldn’t escape his troubling habits. In his early thirties Walker went briefly and miserably into the family business. His substance abuse and lack of business basics doomed his prospects as an oilman, so his daddy pulled some strings to get him involved in various other enterprises, but nothing stuck. Now at 54, he had put his days of drugs and drinking behind him, but still couldn’t find a job he was good at. When DC Powers; a longtime family friend, had called offering him a position at the Casablanca ranch, Walker jumped at the chance to try his hand at cattle ranching. He and Rover had come up from Texas two weeks ago. It hadn’t taken long for the ranch personnel to figure out that the dog was the smarter of the two.
Walker slipped his left boot into the stirrup and swung his right leg over the saddle, then gave the gelding a gentle kick in the ribs. He wasn’t an expert horseman, but he could fake it pretty well. He guided the horse out of the corral and around the big white barn where a couple of cowhands were repairing a tractor. Walker tapped the front brim of his hat with two fingers the way he’d seen it done in Hollywood westerns. They obliged him with the same gesture, then snickered and wagged their heads as he rode away.
Walker headed out across the cattle pasture at the west end of the ranch. Brown and flattened by winter snow, last year’s grass was just beginning to send out shoots of green after the thaw. The cattle had been brought down from the high country in September to winter in the lower pastures and give birth to the Spring crop of Red Angus calves. Walker avoided going too near the herd because Rover always ending up stampeding them.
This morning the cattle were clustered in the south side of the pasture, so Walker headed north. Rover zigzagged in front of the horse sniffing for varmint holes. He found a den and dug furiously, throwing a spray of dirt between his back legs. The rodents were hiding too deep for him to reach, but no matter how unsuccessful his attempts, he never seemed to tire of the activity. Suddenly Rover stopped digging and sniffed the air. He barked and ran ahead to the northwest corner of the pasture. Walker saw buzzards circling high above where Rover was headed and decided he’d better check it out. Deciding was one of his best traits. Yep, he was a real good decider, even if all of his decisions didn’t exactly work out to his advantage.
Flies were gathering on the cow’s bloated carcass, but the calf stood close to her looking as if it expected her to get up and offer him a teat. Rover ran around to the back end of the dead cow sniffing the dried blood. He found the afterbirth and gobbled it down then turned and looked hungrily at the calf.
Assessing the situation, Walker made another decision. There was only one thing to do. He reached down, slipped his hand into the tooled leather holster attached to his belt, and pulled out his cell phone. He punched in the speed dial number for the foreman, and Rum Feldon answered; “Yeah?”
“Uh, I’m in the pasture and…I got a dead cow and a, uh…baby…uh…”
“Calf.” Rum offered
“Yeah, calf here and uh well, it’s still alive so, what should I, or in other words…”
“I’ll send someone out to clean it up,” Rum snapped.
“Oh yeah, ok then”
Walker was glad Feldon hadn’t asked him to bring the calf in. The thing was caked with dried blood and dirt. It would make a real mess of his clothes.
Colwell was shoveling shit out of the bull corral, a job that increasingly fell to him these days. It seemed that ever since he’d begun to have disagreements with management, he’d been given more and more distasteful tasks. He wasn’t happy about the way business was being conducted here at the Casablanca, or his part in it. Lately he’d been giving some serious thought about quitting the outfit, but suspected that he’d be gone before they gave him a chance to make up his mind.
Slinging another shovelful of shit on the pile, Colwell looked up to see Walker swaggering across the corral leading Coattails.
“Here you go Coley.”
Walker handed him the reins then sauntered off with Rover waddling by his side. Colwell leaned his shovel against the fence and led the horse over to the tackroom. He tied the reins to a rail and removed the heavy saddle and blanket, carrying them inside where Abe Elliot was rubbing oil into a saddle.
“The Texan?” he asked, as Colwell hefted the saddle onto a log mount.
“Yeah.”
“Thinks he’s too important to take care of it himself,” Abe said.
“I can’t tell if it’s arrogance or ignorance,” Colwell replied.
“Both.” Abe said, “Rich kid, used to having everything done for him.”
“He sure doesn’t know shit about the cattle business,” Colwell said, “I don’t understand what a guy like that is doing here, and staying in the big house to boot.”
“Well,” Abe said, “when you see a turtle sitting on a fencepost, you can be damned sure it had help gettin’ there.”
Connie Pilaf set out in the jeep as soon as she got the call from the foreman. Besides Colwell, she was the only African American on the ranch and the only woman. Despite her petite size, she worked as hard as any of the men, and had earned the reputation that no job was too dirty or difficult for her.
Connie drove over to the corner of the pasture where the newborn stood bawling by his dead mother. “Wolfy push,” Connie commanded. The slender black and brown dog jumped out of the jeep and ran over to the calf. Wolfy came up close behind the calf and yapped sharply, startling it and sending it bounding away from the carcass on wobbly legs.
While Wolfy held the calf away, Connie hooked a cable around the cow’s neck and wenched the putrid body on to the trailer behind her jeep. She grabbed a piece of canvas cloth out of the back seat and walked slowly toward the calf. Tossing the cloth over the frightened animal, she picked it up and wrapped the calf’s torso and legs tightly so it couldn’t wriggle out, carried it to the Jeep and set it in the back seat. Wolfy jumped in next to the squirming bleating bundle.
Back at the ranch Connie instructed Colwell to prepare a bottle of warm milk and left the calf with him. She called the Cody Animal Services Dept. to pick up and dispose of the cow’s body. After that she called Feldon.
“Yeah?” Rum answered.
“I’ve taken care of the carcass and I’ve got Colwell bottle-feeding the calf, what’s next?” she asked.
“Just keep that calf alive, I’ll call the other ranches and see if they’ve got a situation we can take advantage of.”
“Yes, sir.” Connie answered.
She hung up and gave her head a toss, as if to clear her face of a stray strand of hair, but her stiff straightened shoulder length do didn’t budge. She stood and marched out to relay the order to Colwell.
Rum Feldon’s spacious office was situated at the end of the L-shaped bunkhouse building. From his window he could see most of the bunkhouse, the main house and the driveway, allowing him to keep an eye on the comings and goings of everyone on the ranch. The hands referred to it as “Command Central.” Rum sat at his desk, the high backed wood chair framing his square shoulders. Dinero, Rum’s black and white border collie, was laying on the floor next to him. He reached down and scratched the dog’s head, then picked up the phone and made some calls.
The Bar W ranch had a calf die two days ago. They were keeping it in cold storage until the vet had a chance to determine the cause of death. With current concerns about anthrax, hoof and mouth, and mad cow, they couldn’t be too careful. Rum arranged to get the calf’s skin delivered after the vet gave the ok.
It was an old trick; wrap the motherless calf in the dead one’s hide and, recognizing her own calf’s smell, the cow would adopt the orphan and care for it. Sometimes it didn’t work out, but this wasn’t one of them. Within a few days the newborn Red Angus was suckling away at his foster mother’s udder in the neighboring Bar W pasture. The stiffening hide of the dead calf was removed and the cow was none the wiser.
The calf thrived under his new mother’s care and was growing rapidly. The hands at both Bar W and the Casablanca were talking about the calf’s unusually large size. He wouldn’t be as easy to handle as the other calves come branding and tagging time, so it was decided to get him done early.
Connie Pilaf and Rich Oyster drove over to the Bar W pasture in the jeep one morning when the calf was barely two months old. They brought Wolfy along to help. Connie pitched a forkful of hay under the mother’s nose while Oyster tied a rope to the rear bumper of the jeep. He looped the other end and threw the lasso over the calf’s head then grabbed the calf’s torso and tipped it to the ground. He quickly removed the rope from its neck and tied the two front feet together. He took another piece of rope and tied the back legs, then kneeled on the calf’s neck. The calf squirmed and squealed causing the cow to leave off munching and move to protect her child. Wolfy yapped and lunged at her, driving the agitated mother away.
Connie reached into the back seat of the jeep and pulled out a bag of tools and the electric branding iron. Kneeling on the calf’s rump, she handed the bag of tools to Oyster. He reached in, pulled out the tagger and loaded it with a green plastic rectangle with the number 347 printed in black. He punched the tag into the calf’s right ear. The calf let out a cry of pain and the cow mooed, tossed her lowered head from side to side and tried to move in closer, but Wolfy kept her at bay. Oyster exchanged the tagger for another tool. He positioned the notcher and punched a triangular piece of flesh out of the edge of the calf’s left ear. The calf bawled out and the cow mooed her distress while Oyster took a syringe and shoved the needle into the skin of the calf’s neck, smoothly injecting the vaccine.
Connie had the branding iron heating up while she stretched the elasticator; a small rubber ring, over the calf’s testicles. Finally she positioned the iron with the letters DC over the calf’s flank and pressed down hard. The calf gave a scream of pain as the hot metal seared away fur and flesh. The cow charged past Wolfy, mooing in protest over the torture of her adopted child, but the deed was done. The calf was reunited with its foster mother, tagged, notched, vaccinated, and marked with the brand of DC Powers. Within a few days, the elasticator would effectively squeeze off the blood supply to the calf’s testicles and they’d fall off, turning the potential bull into a steer.
CHAPTER 3
While its foster mother grazed, the calf wandered around the pasture, exploring his rural environment. He meandered slowly, sniffing the newly sprouted grass with his soft wet nose, nibbling at the occasional dandelion. When the gnarled gray trunk of a large oak tree loomed into view, he stopped and stared up at the leafy limbs spreading above him like the arms of some giant creature.
“What’s that mark?” a deep crackly voice sounded from over head.
“Huh?” the startled calf took a few steps back and looked up.
“What’s that mark?” the voice repeated.
“Um. Who’s there?” the calf asked.
A large black bird peeked around from a high branch behind the trunk and hopped down to a lower branch in front, tilting its head to peer at the calf. “Never answer a question with a question,” scolded the raven. “I’ll ask again. What’s that mark, the one on your side where the hair is missing?”
The calf turned his head and looked at the raw brand on his flank, “It’s something the Ranchers gave me. They stuck me with a hot thing.”
“Well it makes you look like sort of a knucklehead…but I suppose you’re stuck with it. Get it, stuck with it. Haw Haw!” the raven said.
“Who are you?” Mark asked.
“My name’s Clowers, what do they call you?”
“My mom calls me Dearie.”
“Well I’m sure not calling you Dearie,” the Raven said, “I guess I’ll just call you…Mark. Haw Haw Haw!”
The calf didn’t like this bird’s stupid jokes and he especially didn’t like being laughed at. He turned and started walking away, but Clowers called, “Oh come on now, don’t get mad, I’m just funnin.”
The calf turned his head and looked back at the bird, then he had an idea.
“Hey, will you look at something for me?”
“Sure Mark, what is it?” the bird spread his wings and glided from the tree to the ground, then hopped over to face the calf.
“It’s my…it’s…oh just look between my back legs.”
Clowers walked behind the calf as Mark spread his legs and lifted his tail. His testicles were swollen and blue from the elastic ring squeezing off the blood.
“Hmmm,” the raven mused, “I’d say that’s a tight situation. Haw Haw Haw!”
Seeing the calf’s annoyance, Clowers added hastily, “Want me to see if I can fix it?”
“Yeah, it really hurts.” Mark replied.
Clowers reached up, clasped the ring with his beak and tugged.
“Ow!” yelled Mark, but Clowers tugged harder and finally pulled the band off.
Mark felt the blood rush back into his balls and the painful throbbing subsided.
“Whew! Thanks, that feels a lot better!”
Still holding the elastic ring in his beak, Clowers looked up at the calf’s rear quizzically.
“What?” asked Mark.
The raven spit out the ring and said, “Sometimes I find,” he pointed his beak at Mark’s balls, “those things just lying on the ground.”
“And?” said Mark
“And…they’re pretty tasty really.”
Mark gasped, “You EAT them?”
“Hey! How was I to know?” Clowers defended.
The calf rolled his eyes and sighed, “Well at least you won’t be getting mine.”
The raven teased; “Not today anyway, but watch your back. Haw Haw Haw!”
Mark went to the tree at the west end of the pasture every day after his first meeting with the raven, but Clowers wasn’t there. After a while he started to forget about the bird until one day he felt a large shadow pass over him. When he looked up, Clowers was soaring ten feet above, headed for the old oak. “Still got your balls?” the raven shouted, “Haw Haw Haw!”
Mark broke in to a run.
“Whe…whe…” was all Mark could get out when he finally reached the tree.
Clowers sat on a low branch preening his feathers.
“Slow down boy, take it easy, breathe…Haw Haw!”
Mark took a few breaths, then said, “Where have you been?”
“Been all over. There’s a lot more than you know out there” replied Clowers, waving his right wing in a sweeping motion toward the hills beyond the fence.
“Out There,” Mark repeated dreamily. It sounded so mysterious and exciting, he said it again, “Out There” then wondered aloud, “Where is Out There?”
“Well,” Clowers tried to think of the best way to explain, “it’s the wilderness. Where all the other animals live.”
“Other cattle and horses you mean?”
“No, just deer and elk and bison and a lot more.” Clowers instructed.
Mark’s head was reeling with the idea of other animals living outside of the pasture. He wanted to go Out There right now. He jumped straight up and kicked his heels, tossed his head and yelled, “Wow!”
“Haw Haw! Settle down there fella” chuckled Clowers, “I’ll be happy to tell you all about it.”
“NO, NO!” Mark screamed, “I want to see it myself, I want to go Out There in the Wilderness!”
“Whoa” Clowers shook his head, “You can’t leave this pasture.”
Mark looked shocked, “What! Why? Why can’t I leave?”
“Because of the fence. You can’t fly over it like I do.” The raven flapped his wings and teased; “Unless you got some wings hidden somewhere. Haw Haw…” but Mark looked so disappointed that Clowers took pity and quit laughing.
“Listen son,” he said, “Some animals are born free, others aren’t. Cattle are born into captivity. I know it doesn’t sound fair, but that’s the way it is. Just be glad you’re not a horse, they really got a bad deal. At least you don’t have Ranchers riding your back, eh?”
The Raven lifted off and called back over his shoulder, “Gotta go, see you next time” leaving Mark standing dumbfounded under the spreading oak.
Until now Mark had been content with his life in the pasture, munching sweet grass all day, resting and chewing cud in the shade of the trees, playing tag with the other calves. He had thought he was free. But that was before he knew about the fence.
The fence. It had been such a benign object, Mark had simply accepted it as part of his world. Now the weathered gray wooden posts and three rusty barbed wire strands had become a hated symbol of captivity, separating him from freedom and adventure. He began to walk the entire perimeter of the pasture every day, scanning for any evidence of weakness in the fence.