“Want to sit right here, honey?” Brad patted next to his leg.
What a beautiful late November afternoon. Blue skies overhead, a gentle breeze, the sun still warm and making the tall grass glow.
I looked down at the heaving, black-haired flank of a steer calf we had choked down on the ground behind the trailer. He weighed all of 650 pounds, maybe more, and had put up a fight for the last 20 minutes, dragging Brad’s little roping horse all over the pasture, while I tried to haze the stupid animal on Henry, a giant black gelding who rides like a truck without power steering. Ten minutes ago, we had worked the calf over to the trailer and were trying without success to haul the ridiculous creature inside when he took off with two lariats around his neck. Dirty darn.
Brad spurred Rocket after him and piled off, managing to catch one of the ropes as it snaked through the grass behind the calf. I don’t really know what the plan was after that, but honestly it was pretty impressive to watch, in a strange sort of a way. The calf charging ahead like a bucking bull with a chip on his shoulder, Brad hanging on to the end of that rope and somehow managing to stay standing. It was all going along swimmingly until Brad yelled, “He’s getting mad!” and took off running as fast as his slick-bottomed cowboy boots would let him. It really was a sight to behold. I kept expecting the fun to be over and a word to that effect to slip out of Brad’s mouth, but he was grinning. The whole time.
Fast-forward, and here we were, back at the trailer with the calf, who had (finally) choked himself out and was laying on the ground temporarily, sides heaving, eyes rolled back in their sockets. Brad was kneeling on his flank, tying his front legs together. He patted the calf and looked up at me. “Want to sit right here, honey?”
I looked uneasily at the calf, not at all trusting that it was really out. And here’s my husband asking me to take a seat on the calf’s back end. All 120 pounds of me. Sure, yeah, whatever you want, dear. I did as asked, not at all enthusiastically, gingerly taking an uncommitted knee on the calf’s flank.
“And here, you can grab the tail, too,” Brad added, handing me the end of the manure-covered tail which was pulled tautly between the calf’s legs. Oh yeah, sure, that’ll help. I took it, obediently, but really, what good would that do, when 650 pounds of calf wakes up, catches his breath, and realizes there’s only 120 pounds of person on his rear? Not much.
“Can we at least tie his back legs or something?” I asked meekly. We did (kind of) and Brad bounded off.
We successfully loaded the calf, and uneventfully dropped him off at the main corrals to be worked the next day with the rest of the critters, arriving home some few hours after we were supposed to be home. I was tired. Maybe a little grouchy, since my to-do list for the evening (cooking and baking for the next day) hadn’t gotten any shorter.
But then I’d see Brad patting the calf and saying, “Want to sit right here, honey?” and I would just start giggling.
“Well, you said you wanted to spend more time together,” Brad quipped.
Song Dog Journal 