“What’s he doing now? And do I even want to know?”
“Branding. Some ranchers use ear tags, but we find them a problem when the animals get too high in the mountains. Lots of branches and things for them to catch on, and then we get maggot problems. Plus, they’re easier to remove by rustlers. Branding is easy, quick, and less likely to cause problems later, so that’s what we do.”
Angus pressed the end of the iron into the side of the calf’s upper hip. A huge cloud of smoke rose up to surround Angus’s head, making me really glad I wasn’t close enough to smell the burning hair and flesh. “That poor baby,” I whispered, my hands curling into fists. I pressed them into my mouth, unable to tear my eyes away from the operation. Angus stood and moved out of the way.
“We take good care of our animals and branding is part of that,” explained Maeve, pride in her voice. “Without it they’d be easily stolen, and people who steal animals generally don’t take very good care of them.”
I wanted to stay mad at Mack for holding down the calf and allowing it to be hurt like that, but the simple fact is that I like hamburgers. My sense of fairness and accountability told me it was wrong to hate the process and participants when I was a willing beneficiary of it all. “I suppose if you do your best by the animals when they’re in your care, that’s the best you can do.”
“We follow the Temple Grandin methods out here as much as we possibly can. We’re big believers.”
“Temple Grandin?”
“She’s a brilliant scientist who’s done a lot to contribute to the livestock industry and animal husbandry. You should check her out online. She’s a pretty amazing woman.”
“Soooo … she has rules or whatever about how to do things?”
“Not rules, per se. See, she’s autistic, and has a special sensitivity to the world around her, much like cows do, in fact. So she’s able to see the world through their eyes, something ranchers never seemed to be able to do in the past. In our world, cattle are a means to an end. At least, that’s how it used to be. But thanks to her insight and contributions, we’ve been able to find ways to make the animals’ lives here as pleasant as possible while also making a living at raising them for food. It’s a delicate balance, but we like to think we’re getting it right.”
“It sounds fascinating.” I wasn’t lying either. I’d never heard of such a thing, and the fact that it was a woman doing the work of understanding cows for the benefit of ranchers was empowering even just to think about. It seemed like such a man’s world out here. This Temple person must have had an uphill battle on her hands. I admire kick-butt women in general, so I made a mental note to Google her later.
“It is fascinating, it truly is. I suggest you start with the movie that was made about her. It’s powerful. I guarantee you’ll need tissues when you’re watching it. Her work sure caused a lot of heads around here to think differently. Started with Angus many years ago and bled over to several other operations, and the movement grows every year. Right now over half the cattle in our country are raised using methods she discovered and taught.”
“That’s … amazing. Really, I mean it.”
“Yes. Temple is an amazing person. Brilliant and compassionate. She reminds us that animals deserve our respect, a decent life, and a painless death. It’s the least we can do. I’ve seen her speak live before. It was quite a whirlwind of energy and information. She’s a real fireball. Makes you proud to be a woman rancher.” Maeve stared out over the operation and nodded silently.
A lump developed in my throat that wouldn’t go away. I turned to face the men and watched as Boog bent over at the animal’s rear legs near its stomach.
“He’s castrating the bull now,” said Maeve in a soft voice. “This part hurts them, but he’s good and he’s fast. It’ll all be over in a minute.”
“Why do they do it?”
“It makes the animal much less aggressive towards the men and the other animals, so it’s a safety issue. And it makes their meat better. They’re being sold for food, so that’s an important thing.”
I nodded absently, focused on Boog. I couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but after about a minute he straightened up and dropped what he was holding into a bucket near his feet.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Testicles. He’ll fry them up later and eat them. We’ll have some at the picnic so you can give them a try.” She looked at me. “You’re coming, I hope.”
“You said it’s in a couple days, but I’ll be gone by then.” I left the eating-of-balls comment alone because it would be an ice-cold, snowy day in hell before a calf testicle passed through these lips of mine.
“It sounds like you work a lot of hours, being focused the way you are on your lifeplan and all.”
Her change of subject threw me off a little. “Uhhhh … yes, I do work very hard. At least sixty hours a week.”