With whom?
Not me.
I called Nate.
“You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
“She called my pasture open space.”
“Yep.”
“You going?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Smart.”
“Also, Karen ordered a banner.”
“Of course she did.”
“You sound calm.”
“I’m deciding how angry I am.”
“How angry?”
“I’ll tell you after I walk the fence.”
That Friday, I did exactly that.
I walked every boundary.
South gate.
North fence.
Creek line.
Barn access road.
East pasture.
The land was dry.
Summer heat had baked the topsoil hard.
Grass reached halfway to my knees in places.
My bulls were in the east section.
Thirty five of them.
Mostly Angus and Charolais crosses.
Big animals.
Thick necks.
Heavy shoulders.
Some close to a ton.
People who do not work around livestock tend to describe bulls in one of two ways.
Either monsters.
Or giant cows.
Both are wrong.
They are animals.
Powerful ones.
They have moods.
Patterns.
Comfort zones.
They react to noise, movement, unfamiliar people, strange objects, and other cattle.
Treat them properly and they are manageable.
Treat them like decorations and you are volunteering for an education.
My father taught me that before I was old enough to drive.
“Never assume an animal understands your stupidity,” he once said.
I had forgotten the quote until Karen arrived.
Saturday morning, I drove into town for mineral blocks and fencing staples.
At Grady’s Feed and Tack, a cashier named Megan looked at me while scanning the order.
“You heard about the picnic?”
“I heard.”
“On your land?”
“That’s what Karen thinks.”
Megan stopped scanning.
“You allowing it?”
“No.”
“She told everybody you were.”
“That sounds like Karen.”
“You got cameras?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She handed me the receipt.
“People get honest around cameras.”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes they get stupid.”
“That too.”
On my way home, I drove past the Willowbrook clubhouse.
