On Wonder and Warfare

I can vividly recall Daddy Bull, the hulk in the shadows of the barn. Grandpa kept him in a well-bedded pen at the back of the calf barn, a solid wall separating him from the milking parlor. Grandmother and I would walk to the milkhouse with our two ewers every morning as the first milking was finishing up; one pitcher for milk, still warm and pulled from the depths of the stainless steel tank, the other pitcher for pure Jersey cream, flotsam lofty and dense among the serene sea of fluid. Most often I would stay and help clean the barn, sometimes feeding the calves with formula that I couldn't help but taste time and time again. And when those more coarse chores were done, Grandpa would shuffle into the milkhouse and do some fine-cleaning and sterilization of the equipment. This would leave me time to myself to wander with the dog and several cats; we'd venture up into the hayloft, making sure to step only where we could see rafters, or we'd wander among the calves and the horse stalls toward the end of the barn. Every now and again, I'd climb the several enormous rails to visit him. Daddy Bull. He was a Jersey, but a deep rust color from the withers back, and slick black from shoulders to nose. He was polled, so his eyes were obvious and dark...deep, beautiful. There is no description that exists in a child's lexicon to convey the enormity, the brawn, the sheer fearsome might in such a bull. He was terrifyingly gargantuan. He grunted sometimes, mostly keeping to his hay. But he would amble over in his bovine way when I climbed to the top rail and we would visit. I could rub the nub between where his horns would've been and he, in clear appreciation, would bob his massive head rhythmically up and down. I could make out, but never touch, the massive brass ring through his septum, and watch with utter fascination the rippling of muscle upon muscle through his shoulders. Transfixed. Awed.
Grandpa would invariably holler for me to get down from there, don't go messin' with that bull. I'd also heard Grandpa refer to him as the easiest animal on the farm. I'd also seen him turned loose with the heifers, with some of the more mature cows. It somehow made sense...if only in that I genuinely had no questions. 

I never, and I mean never wanted to work with stallions. My fourth year on the thoroughbred breeding farm brought with it the mandate that I do my time there (it was an elite promotion, but one that, from what I'd seen, I'd rather not entertain). Dr Blum was a fantastic, if somewhat disproportionately oversized fiery chestnut. He was sixteen years of age by the time I was assigned to care for him: a bit long in the tooth. I witnessed daily the pure sadism of some of the other stallions in the barn, the trampling of walkers, the teeth tearing the flesh. Blum was not so agile in his heft, and seemed to sigh and resign himself to the matter of being shackled with cross-ties when I groomed him daily. That didn't in the least, however, deter him from cowing me into a corner with his ass-end, nor did it prevent him from stepping on my feet with remarkable precision and frequency. We worked together for a couple of years, I guess. He'd still bite me, quick nips, really, when I wasn't paying attention, but he'd fix his gaze on me when he did. We worked well together. He appreciated my learning as best I could that which Monty Roberts tried to teach. I adored his aroma, I loved that only I could rub his belly. He'd bob his head when I scratched his chest. He'd cow-kick me if I pulled his tail while brushing him but he always managed to restrain himself from bolting at the gate after I told him it terrified me. He is among the teachers I most admire. Our relationship made sense, and I never thought to question any aspect of it. 

Buddy came to the shelter having been released from a tree in the deep woods, the chain removed from where it had grown into his neck. He was given a stay of 14 days in the run, as legally mandated. He was goaded to the outer portion of the run in order to have his rations given to him as he would snap at whomever dared open the chain link door to his pen. But when I would stop and chat with him, there was a youthfulness in his eyes. And a deep, deep painful yearning. After a few days I slowly entered his pen with him. He growled, not menacingly, from the back corner. I sat on the floor and, eyes averted, asked that he tell me what it was he needed to say. After a few more days he approached me, sitting just within arm's reach, but I didn't reach. We just...were. On day twelve of his residence he layed in my lap. I put my hand slowly on his back as he snapped back and bit my arm. I didn't respond, and he whimpered and buried his head in my lap. Maybe he was relieved of some horrible karma two days later, or maybe it was a terrible misappropriation of fate. I'm not one to say. And I'm not one to question the why, only to make the best of the what, and the what is that I loved him even though, and I hope and often think he at least knew that. The love we shared made sense. Even though. 

There's a breeding ram in the midst of the flock again this time of year. I've had my share of challenges from headstrong alpha-aspiring rams, and so I was a bit chagrined to see that the breeder-in-residence this year is a bit closer to a small bull than most we've entertained. I've not had need to flip him, mock-goring his soft under-belly this year. I've had no need for the staff I carry through the years. His eyes are marvelous, inquisitive, shy. He stays to the rear of the flock in transit. He stays focused on me when we move, and I don't take my eyes off him. We have an understanding at the moment, and right now it makes sense.  

I'm not great with humans: I find them generally challenging to read. I think there exists a great many paradoxes in animals, us upright fleshy ones included. And maybe it's our general discomfort with paradox that leads us to obfuscate, demur, embellish and lie. Maybe our call for a pack, a herd, a tribe leads us out of authentic discourse, a speaking from the heart. A sharing of the soul that requires no words. There's tremendous discomfort in that, it's vulnerability. But maybe it's the turning away from these things that stifle wonder and genuine experience, and maybe it's the turning away from these things that perpetuates and creates warfare, in our world and in our communities and in our heads. 
Or maybe I just don't understand. 
It just doesn't make sense.   


Blessings and an open heart....