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There’s no telling what spooks a
steer, heifer, cow or bull, draped with a halter and drug from
the pasture to the unnatural confines of a show barn and arena.
Sometimes you can make an
educated guess after the dust has settled, like loud noises and
fast action from equipment or people they’ve never seen. Other
times, guessing is the closest thing to an explanation.
Consider the black pie-bald steer
Bugsy showed at the Rio Rojo County Fair this summer. His name
was Trigger, because Bugsy liked the name. It was her first 4-H
steer, and represented a seismic philosophical shift for Hooter
who thought showing cattle was a waste of hard-earned pounds. By
nature, Trigger was the opposite of his name, more laid back
than a dead armadillo.
Hooter bought the steer from his
old judging teammate, Uncas Binglemeyer, who fancied himself a
master crafter of genes and seedstock. Despite that, Hooter
reckoned the calf could be competitive locally. The white face
meant Uncas wasn’t holding him back as a bull prospect, so the
price was right, too.
“It breaks my heart to think of
you castrating him,” Uncas had said. “That calf represents the
fifth generation in my line of Binglemeyer Composites. He’s a
grandson of Sir Loin-A-Lot himself. You remember him?”
Sir Lean-a-lot was more like it,
thought Hooter. The bull in question was the oddest collection
of misaligned cattle parts he ever remembered. Binglemeyer’s
super sire was a home-brewed concoction of Angus, Hereford,
Maine Anjou, Simmental, Watusi and Nellore. “And a secret
ingredient,” Uncas would chortle to anyone who would listen to
his breeding scheme. Hooter always suspected the secret
ingredient was Peruvian Warthog.
To see this calf and think that
bull had anything to do with him made Hooter appreciate the fact
that genetic dice can fall exactly opposite of the intent.
After the purchase, Trigger spent
his first few months with a package of calves Hooter had out on
wheat. There was never a sniffle or cough. Best as Hooter could
tell, Trigger was out-gaining his peers.
Hooter never told Bugsy about the
purchase. When she decided she wanted to show a steer, Hooter
simply carried her out to the pasture and told her to pick one.
Whether it was pride, relief or a mixture of the two, Hooter
grinned inside and out when Bugsy chose Trigger.
When it was time for Bugsy to
manage the steer closer to home, Trigger plodded into his new
grass trap like he’d been born there. He took to a halter with a
single shake of his head.
That’s one reason Hooter hadn’t considered the prospects of
Trigger going off. The other was Hooter’s own inexperience with
holding and moving cattle with a lead rope.
It’s not like Hooter took the new
experience for granted. He’d taken Bugsy and Trigger to the
county’s rickety fair grounds several times leading up to the
show so they could get a feel for the place. Peetie Womack,
whose own kids had been tough state competitors coached Bugsy in
the basics of showmanship. When fair time came, Hooter took them
to the grounds early so they could pick the stall they wanted.
Harbinger of Chaos
Admittedly, Hooter was enjoying the attention Trigger and
Bugsy were receiving.
“Bugsy, judging from that steer, you’ve got an eye on you,” said
Izzy Franklin, “And, you’ve got him looking 12 O’clock.”
Shooting a stream of Mail Pouch
into the wood shavings as he cast a critical eye, Lonnie Johnson
told her, “In spite of Hooter here, you’ve got the best steer in
the barn.”
Even Bob Houston from Apache
Feeders had stopped to tell Bugsy that Trigger was the best
steer he’d seen at Rio Rojo County Fair in some years.
Of course, Claire—Bugsy’s Mom—and
Aunt Pinky were beside themselves with how well Bugsy was
handling her project.
Possibly no one was more elated
than Uncas Binglemeyer.
“I don’t care if you do say no,”
Uncas had informed Hooter a week before the show. “As the
breeder of that steer, I feel it’s my responsibility to come and
support Bugsy.”
“Really, Uncas, we’ll call you
just as soon as…”
“No sir, I’m coming and that’s
the end of it. Lord knows with you at the helm that young lady
will need any professional help she can get.”
“But…”
Click.
Hooter knew better than to try to
head Uncas off at the pass. Uncas making up his mind was like
unleashing a flash flood; the best you could hope for was
managing the damage.
In this case, Hooter let the fair
board know that an unbiased, third-party visitor would be on
hand who would make an excellent taste tester for the edible
projects if they’d only ask. He knew they would. He also knew
there was no way that Uncas would say no after his ego had been
stroked. Hooter also knew that Aunt Pinky got a bang out of
Uncas and visa versa. As part of the Board, she’d keep him busy.
Hooter was thinking about all
that as he led Trigger to tie-outs. Bugsy had her interview for
leather craft, and Hooter wanted to keep the steer on schedule.
He was about halfway there when it dawned on him this was the
first time he’d led the steer when Bugsy wasn’t there. It could
be that it dawned on Trigger at the same time.
When Letting Go is Holding On
In one fluid instant, Trigger bawled like someone had put a
hot iron to him, planted his feet and jerked his head hard high
and to the right. Hooter felt and heard the rope sizzle through
his hands up to the knot at the end; later on Hooter would swear
he smelled the burning flesh.
In the next instant, Trigger had
rolled back over his hocks and was running hard back toward the
barn. For some reason and by some act of Divine providence,
Hooter remained attached to the end of the lead rope, running to
keep up with Trigger at first, then being dragged a few steps
later.
Trigger headed toward his stall
but then veered left down the alley in front of it, fishtailing
Hooter into support poles and careening him off the scale chute.
By the time they got to the gravel separating the barn from the
exhibit building, Hooter had a vague notion that he’d run into
or under at least three different people. He heard shouts,
screams and obscenities, but from far away like another age in
time.
The gravel was sharp-edged
caliches, but at least it was deep, thought Hooter. The town
brought in a new load for the fair every year.
Looking in between Trigger’s
flying hooves for just an instant, Hooter could see they were
headed straight for Nelda Isselfrick who was carrying some fancy
multi-layer cake. Hooter would always remember there was a blue
ribbon taped to the cellophane around that cake, just fluttering
so peacefully in the late afternoon breeze.
When Hooter struggled to look
back he couldn’t see Nelda, but he saw her cake smashed into the
gravel and a crowd of people gathering behind him and Trigger,
whether to help them or lynch them was anybody’s guess.
“Not the sand burrs, not the sand
burrs…” thought Hooter.
Yep.
Trigger charged out to the grass
parking lot, which had more sand burrs and soap weed than blue
stem. More screams. Hooter looked back to see two empty halters
swinging from a trailer where there had been horses a moment
before.
Then, everything stopped. In the
daze that comes with shock and pain, Hooter was trying to make
sense of that as he noted that Trigger was running past him
going the other direction.
When Trigger jerked the slack in the lead rope, it spun Hooter
up in the air high enough to land on the left corner of
somebody’s pick-up hood. Hooter was vaguely aware of seeing the
toes of his boots knife through the bug screen. But still, he
held on.
They were back on the gravel, but
faster this time, right through what was left of Nelda’s cake,
into one side of the barn and out the other, past the tie rack
and toward the flag pole.
Then everything stopped again. Hooter saw Trigger running by in
the opposite direction and he braced himself for the slingshot.
Nothing. Trigger ran by the opposite direction, but closer this
time. Hooter braced. Nothing. This went on until Hooter felt hot
breath on his neck and heard snorting. He rolled over onto his
belly and was staring directly into Trigger’s eyes.
It turned out, completely on his
own, the steer had dallied the lead rope around the flag pole.
Hooter kept holding on to the lead rope. He heard voices behind
him. When he rolled over on his back he thought he could make
out the faces of Bugsy and Uncas, both screaming, “What have you
done to my steer, what have you done to my steer.”
Someone was prying his fingers
from the lead rope. It was Peetie.
“Why didn’t you just let him go?”
said Peetie in disgust. “Someone could have gotten killed.”
“I didn’t want to hurt Trigger,” said Hooter.
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