Pulling the Bulls

Some days I sense that he misses her more than he knows what to do with. 

On yesterday's overcast morning he had to rely on me and the side-by-side to be his sidekick; two days ago he went to pull a bull and he was injured slightly. It is so much better for everyone —bulls, horses and humans — if there is no mechanical noise in the delicate process of extricating the Boys of Summer from their playgrounds. But yesterday there was no one else to help.

"Why don't you drive on up the fence line, and I'll meet you at the next gate?" he suggested gently. I remembered how he said one of his greatest joys was to ride, side by side, in silence for the most part, breathing the air heavy with the scents of wild sage and silver willow and hearing the sounds of creation in perfect synch with the clop-clop rhythm of the horses' hooves. As I turned to go, I noticed his shoulders more stooped than normal, perhaps carrying another unseen to the human eye.

He had told me that once, toward the end, when she was so sick she had to be admitted to the hospital, he had taken a great branch of silver willow to her because it was her favourite. The hospital staff threw him and it out; there was no room for that "smelly weed" in their antiseptic environment.

There was the gate; I turned off the engine, waiting for him to appear.

And slowly he did, faithful Chopper intuiting his thoughts. He saw me and paused, opening the gate, glancing toward the next stage. "Follow this fence. We are looking for two Herefords, and a red and a yellow." 

I putted along in the direction he had indicated. Cresting a hill, I saw shimmering waters in a vista that took my breath. 

"Isn't it beautiful?" he called out, and I saw him passing me lower down the hill.

I drove closer to him. "This was one of our favourite views," he said, almost to himself. 

I wondered what it was like for the two of them to come across this exquisite place for the first time, to work together morning 'til night until it was theirs, to ride out here together for no reason but to enjoy the view and the breeze and the scents.

She was only 48.

As I pursued the fence line, I came across a truly pretty pink-streaked rock; I tried to hoist it from the ground but it was embedded too deeply and I had no tools to assist me. I placed a blue bucket over it in hopes of finding and retrieving it later.

The next gate opened into a field of cows and calves, and five somewhat stubborn bulls. Back and forth we went, horse and side-by-side forming a hobbled alliance as we slowly separated the bulls from the cows. 

We got the former heading in one unified direction, and as we started up a hill, the sun suddenly blazed with renewed warmth and energy. 

Finally, finally, after a few hiccups in communication between rider and driver, and a couple of outbreaks of bulls being, well, bullish, we came within sight of the corral. 

The Good Rancher and Chopper were hot, tired, dusty and thirsty. He led his friend into the barn and unsaddled, brushed her down, gave her grain and released her to drink water from the always fresh livestock waterer. Only then did he walk slowly to the house. Animals first. 

I handed him a cool drink. 

"I'm sorry I'm so difficult some days," he said slowly. 

"I'm sorry I can't ride," I replied. 

We looked warily, wearily, at each other for a few moments. 

"Let's go get your rock," he said. 

Today was a new day. Their old pal Bud was riding with him. 

These two friends have helped with each other's cattle for a couple of decades. They are often each other's first call. Their wives, both exceptional horsewomen, were also friends.

The day was one of big skies, big fields, big horses, big bulls, big hearts. 

It wasn't the same as it would have been with him and her, but it was sure something.

And sometimes something is enough.