a love letter to cattle
Dear cattle in the distance,
One final tawny cow slips out of sight. Ten minutes ago, the herd was strung out in a line that ambled east along the edge of an oak break in the far pasture. Their pace was purposeful yet easy, a few calves and their mothers bringing up the rear. Once at the trees, though, they picked up a trot, heavy udders swinging. Now I hear the 4-wheeler: for the cattle, the sound of food. They begin to bellow, their lowing insistent and hopeful.
Cattle helped make Texas: massive ranch empires, railroads, cowboys on dusty cattle drives, stockyards, barbed wire, speculation, and rustling. Cattle define, though perhaps no longer support, several of the men I dance with. Last night I met a 5th generation rancher from Mason, his original family holdings of more than 10,000 acres now divided among progeny. He doesn’t move cattle on horseback anymore and has never eaten from a chuckwagon, though my question gave him a good laugh. He saddles up occasionally to track down a sick or injured calf, but trucks and 4-wheelers are usually quicker and require less maintenance than horses. Another rancher, from Luckenbach, says his roundup now consists of shaking a feed bucket, no horses necessary. Still, when I listen to their stories, I sense a shadow of yearning for the old days even if life is easier now. Or perhaps that yearning is my only my own.
I don’t eat much beef, never have, except for slow-cooked, smoky Texas brisket, tender and crusty, and doused in BBQ sauce. I don’t care for the taste of the meatier cuts, strong and greasy. I don’t know anything about caring for cattle. Goats, horses, chickens, ducks, dogs, cats - yes - but not cattle. I can ride and fix fence, but I have never learned to rope and probably never will.
I do love, however, the soft, wet, snuffly noses of the cows when they nuzzle up to the back porch looking to eat my plants or to drink out of the bird bath. I love how they fold their legs under their sturdy bodies in the grass, chewing quietly alongside their sleeping calves.
I look out again over the high fence, and I know that I write about cattle this morning to avoid an ache inside of me: one that is temporarily abated at the dancehalls, but returns the next day along with tired legs and not enough real rest. I write about cattle so as not to write about my sadness over someone carrying such a wrong notion of me in head and heart. I write about cattle to hush my longing to share this view, this moment, this coffee, this sunrise.
The cattle no longer call out. The 4-wheeler is gone. There are only the voices of the chilly wind, the clanging gate, the road crew in the distance. The clouds hang low and grey above the greening pastures, now empty. It begins to rain.