This is my backyard. This is our office. It's located in my backyard. So are the loading chutes, sheds, barns, silos and molasses tanks (tanks full of molasses that cattle find extremely tasty and nutritious.) Loading cattle here has been a common sight for as long as I can remember. Tonight we loaded bulls. It started to snow when they were loading. I hope the driver and the bulls get to their destination safely.
The bulls have been in my backyard for several weeks. Getting fat. Getting ready to go north. Getting ready to...uh... go to slaughter, or should I say "harvest." Not too long ago that word reminded me of wheat. Kind of like the word "gay" used to make me think of someone happy.
Anyway, today our "politically correct" friends recommend we don't refer to the word that actually describes what has taken place since Adam and Eve. The word that describes what has taken place for centuries to insure human survival. No, today we must treat the word like candied fruit. Sugar coating reality. We might offend tender ears if light is shed on the gruesome origin of food, clothing and consumables.
However you want to say it, it still results with meat on my table, leather for my shoes, buttons on my coat, crayolas for my grandkids, deodorant for my underarms, perfume for my pulse points and footballs. It means I can carry a purse, wear gloves, eat ice cream, and enjoy butter on my bread.
I've watched this cycle of life and death from the time I was old enough to walk. I love cattle. I love animals. I was sad when those bulls loaded on that truck tonight. For the past few weeks I'd been watching them and listening to them. They fought each other. Bellered. Bawled. And dug up dirt here in my backyard.
Tonight their fate was sealed when they boarded the truck. It's part of life.
But it's not keeping me from praying for their safe arrival.
chainranchlady.com
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