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Hooter learned a long time ago never
to say never. When you owned a patch of grass and an
entrepreneurial heart never always seemed to roll around sooner
than someday. In this case,
he knew nothing about Yaks, couldn’t remember seeing pictures of
them, never dreamed of having anything to do with them, yet here
were 37 head grazing in his North pasture. Specifically, they
were F1 hybrid yaks.
“Breed a fullblood Yak cow to a
beef bull and all the heifers will be fertile, but the bulls
will be more sterile than a surgeon’s ice box,” Herm McPike had
told him. Herm was an old friend, known to experiment with
different genetic concoctions, but never known to do anything
more than once unless it paid.
“You know how they increase corn
production,” Herm said, “how increasing yield isn’t because of
kernel size, ear length or number, but it’s because of how many
more plants they can stick in an acre? Well, I’m wondering how
it works with cattle.”
To that end, Herm had flushed
some fullblood Yak cows to a Lowline Angus bull. Besides mature
size, gain and all of the rest, he wanted to see how well
Yak-influenced cattle would hold up as far south as Texas.
All Hooter knew was that the
calves looked like smaller, fuzzier versions of Holstein calves,
what with their long black and white hair. That, and they were
puppy dog gentle.
“Wouldn’t it be ironic if these little fuzz-balls let us
maximize production per acre?” Herm chortled when Hooter had
phoned to let him know the cattle had arrived. “I’m not banking
on it, but it would be.”
Irony is in the Eye of the Beholder
Hooter was thinking about that as he herded his pickup to a
stop in front of Lonnie’s feed store. It was rainy and downright
blustery for this time of year. On such infrequent occasions as
this he and the boys would gather for a game of 42.
“How’s your new pets?” asked
Lonnie without looking up. Shuffling the dominos he added,
“Ain’t lost them out there in that tall grass, yet, have you?”
Hooter ignored the comment, for
the time being, understanding that Lonnie and anything different
got along slightly less compatibly than Carrie Nation and a jug
of gin.
“In all seriousness, how are they
settling in,” wondered Peetie, genuinely interested in the
project.
“Two week and no pulls,” Hooter
said. “Appetite seems good, but I swear you can’t tell where
they’ve been in that pasture. I’ll weigh them the end of next
week to see how they’re coming.”
Charlie pushed back his chair. “I
was thinking about that comment you said Herm made about how
ironic it would be if it turned out those little cattle could
maximize efficiency…”
“The right kind of cattle,” interjected Hooter. “Just because
they’re smaller isn’t what will make them more efficient.”
“I know, I know.”
“But I was thinking about what he
said, too,” Hooter added. “Except I was thinking about it in
terms of the ironies of life and history in general.”
“Like what?” wondered Charlie.
“Like how it is that churches
keep their doors locked,” growled Peetie. “Never have understood
that, never will. Everybody’s welcome, just so long as you show
up at the right time.”
“Or how the war to end all wars
wasn’t,” said Charlie.
“Yep. Exactly that kind of
stuff,” Hooter said.
Lonnie glared across the table at
Peetie who was his 42 partner and at Charlie who wasn’t.
“Seeing’s how y’all are determined to chatter rather than play,
I’m going to get a coke, anyone want one?”
“You were saying, cousin?”
Charlie nodded to Hooter.
“Well, like isn’t it ironic how
that lady who heads up the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Animals in Virginia says she didn’t know her dog was in the
car, being the reason she left him in there during the heat of
day and killed him. I mean any of you boys ever not know when a
dog’s with you?”
Everybody shook their head.
“On the other hand,
unfortunately, some of us have had the experience of running
over one. I feel for the lady. But I understand what you mean by
it being ironic,” Peetie replied.
“Or like how the White House
keeps clamoring about the People’s Garden being organic and that
being a sustainable form of agriculture,” said Hooter.
“Or like how it is that folks who
want to be better off vote for socialism and against
capitalism,” said Charlie. “Now, that’s ironic.”
“No,” said Lonnie, chawing his
Mail Pouch harder, “That’s what you call moronic.”
Sitting Ducks and Whatnot
The bell to Lonnie’s store jangled.
“Anybody home?” called a friendly
voice.
Hooter called out, “We’re in
back, Skip.” Then with a wink to the boys, he whispered, “I
asked him to stop by.”
Skip Newton was a representative
for one of the animal health companies. Everybody always kidded
him about being a Sunday cattleman or being akin to a used car
dealer. It was just kidding, though. Skip new his stuff and they
respected him for it.
“What’s up?” announced Skip with
a gleaming smile as he made the rounds shaking hands.
“Just discussing the mysteries and ironies of life,” said
Hooter.
Charlie gave Skip a review of
what they’d been discussing, except for the cattle experiment
that had started the conversation.
“Or, like, for instance,” said
Hooter, looking up at Skip, “wouldn’t it be ironic if that
newfangled vaccine you had me try ended up making healthy calves
sick rather than healing up sick ones.”
Skip’s face lost its color.
“I’m not saying they’re sick,”
Hooter explained with a serious tone. “But I asked you to drop
by because ever since using it, there’s just something strange
about them. Wouldn’t you say, so, Peetie?”
“Yes sir, I would. Can’t say as
I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.”
Skip looked like someone had
kicked him in the gut. Given Peetie’s years in the business, if
it was something he hadn’t seen before, it had to be serious.
“Let’s go have a look at them,” he said.
“I’ll be along shortly,” said
Hooter. “They’re there in that north pasture.”
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