Better, not Bitter
The moon is a dry cathead biscuit, impaled on the upper branches of a blue cypress tree rendered black by the twilight. The sun will be up in a half-hour, already the ground smells clabbered from heavy rain and oppressive heat.
The dogs step high, Russian soldiers on parade. They can tell I'm hunting by my quiet, so they try not to splash the ankle-deep water. The mule I'm riding is pondering my black mood with her head held low and ears laid back.
The futility of my life is reflected in the bobbing mounds of ants here and there. Living islands, enclosures writhe in sacrificial protection of the Queen. The ones above the waterline swap places with the ones below. A dance of torture, holding their breathe while holding the colony's future above water. Most will die before this water recedes. Maybe enough to start over.
I see him two hundred yards off. Head held high with the last remnants of his pride. He would try to fight us off if he could. Nearly two thousand pounds of muscle, bone, blood and horns.
I whistle the dogs forward to confirm to them who I'm after. They leap to a full run, water jumps around each thrust of their paws. It seems scattered tears fall back down in their wake.
Wolf origins rise as the pack encircles him. Just enough dog remains for them to bark their request to catch him. Hurt and fevered this once and former King of the herd has hidden himself. He stands shaking in pain, in this low land to avoid another bull.
His daily efforts to maintain his position has ended. This only confirms my depression. The Only Registered Brahma bull I own has been crippled in a fight. A normal formality to continue his reign has broke his hind leg and my heart. There should have been five more productive years in him, enhancing my family's small herd.
The dogs whine their case.
"Please let us try him".
He deserves better than this.
Hell, we both do.
I call the dogs behind me and he watches them. I gee them right and he follows their movement with his head. The bull drops with the sound of my rifle. My mule half steps then settles. My heart half skips and settles, despite a loss we can't afford. Fevered and broken three days, I can't even sell him for dog food.
Half a mile ride and back on high ground, my attitude has improved with my altitude. I see two slick headed yearlings in mock battle. That bull's three years of service has gained us almost seventy calves. Some sold, some kept and a couple ready to take his place.
That dry cathead biscuit moon has disentangled itself from that cypress tree. It slid down and over the edge of the world when I wasn't looking. Now the sun climbs the sky as if it were just another ordinary day.
That bull did improve our herd while he was here. I guess that's all any of us can do.
My Grandpa would say,
"If you're gonna touch something, leave it in better shape than when you found it".
I have to choose to be better, not bitter.