Demon Box

The first went to the Great Round-up before the first night was over and the second before the second, their skinny shanks a mass of manure and their big eyes dull from dehydration. By the end of the third night the other six were down. They wouldn’t have made it through the week but for the introduction of my brother’s acidophilus yogurt into their bottles. True to Buddy’s claim, the yogurt fortified their defenseless stomachs with friendly antibodies and enzymes and we pulled the remaining six through.

Hush, Stewart; it’s Ebenezer. I can’t see her in the dark but I can see our brand: a white heart with an X in it, floating ghostly in a black puddle. We use a freeze brand instead of a burn brand, so instead of the traditional bawling of calves and reek of seared hair and flesh, our stock marking is done with whispers and frozen gas. The heavy brass brand soaks at the end of a wooden stick in an insulated bucket bubbling with dry ice and methyl alcohol while we wrestle a calf to the sawdust. We shave a place on the flank, stick the frosted iron to the bald spot, then hope everything holds still for the count of sixty. If it’s done right, the hair grows back out white where the metal touched. Why the crossed heart? It used to be the Acid Test symbol, something to do with spiritual honesty, cross thy heart and hope to etc.

It worked on Ebenezer the best; maybe the iron was colder, or the shave closer; perhaps it’s simply that she is an Angus and pure black for the white to show against. Her has tripled in size since it was frosted on years ago yet still shines sharp and clear. The insignia gives her a look of authority. Indeed, Ebenezer has led the herd with an influence that has continued to grow ever since she first realized that she was the smartest thing in the field, and the bravest, and that if anybody was going to lead a charge of periodic grievances through the fence to protest pasture conditions, it would have to be her. When there is a beef, so to speak, Ebenezer is the spokesman of this whole eighty acres of grazers—cows, calves, steers, bulls, sheep, horses, goats, donkeys, and vegetarian four-footers all.

I refuse to say spokesperson.

The crown of leadership has not been a light one. She’s paid for her years of barricade busting and midwinter protest marches. She’s been hung with irritating bells, tethered to drags, hobbled, collared with yokes made from Y’s of sturdy ash sticking a yard above her neck and a yard below to stop her from squeezing between the strands of barbed wire (stop her until she really got resolute, of course; any of our fencing during those first years was at best a tacit agreement with the half-ton tenants), and she has had bounced off her hide barrages of rocks, clods, bean poles, tools, tin cans and tent stakes and, on one rainy raging night, after hours of mediation over a border dispute, fiery Roman candle balls.

She doesn’t do it so much anymore. She’s learned the price of protest and I’ve learned how to build stronger fences and feed better hay. Still, we both know we can look forward to future demonstrations. There’s a farm doggerel, goes: “Ya know ol’ Ebenezer… she will do what’ll please ‘er!”

Hi, Ebenezer. Still here at the dent in the pipe, eh, chewing away cool and calm? I see you haven’t let no hotrod fox mess with your memories in the ruminating night…

She’s had other old men. The first was Hamburger, a big Guernsey bull, low-browed and hard-looking and horny enough to one time try to mount an idling Harley, biker and all, because a heifer in heat had rubbed against the rear wheel. During the bidding the auctioneer admitted Hamburger was no good looker to speak of, but he claimed he knew the beast personally and could guarantee he was a hard lover with boundless ardor. We knew he had spoken the truth as soon as the bull came down the truck ramp into our clover. He hit the ground with his hard already on. From that time on, almost any hour of any day when you saw Hamburger hanging out, it looked like he could have broke new ground by just walking on his knees.