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That next fall he went off to slaughter, because well that’s what becomes of calves.
The Dog and I have come to deal with what he left behind.And dry wall mud never reached the level of essential.Montana was home for 17 years, longer than anywhere else.We put him in the warm cab of the truck, and I retrieved my coat.I heard they nursed the calf a day or so and he was good as new.This is the place where we welcomed foals on wobbly legs, watched them grow into promising yearlings.
Watched in horror as one hung herself from one leg from a round pen panel, pressured there by a ranch hand who thought he could train horses.When I open the door of the empty house, the dog rushes in ahead of me. We’ve come back to this house many times, Dog and I. I unlock the door onto a patch chest high with weeds. Instead, he looks up at me, circles and sinks into a dejected heap.His mother had gotten into astragalus; it causes birth defects.When he was tiny he could outrun half the horses on the place.Four days before we’d said goodbye to those dogs and husband and son, leaving Ohio for a few weeks in Montana to clean out the old house. It’s a very complicated thing to move nearly two thousand miles across the country, leaving a pack of hounds, a coven of barn cats, a pair of crotchety ponies in your wake.