For the first time I wondered, How is it that for four years Precious and Lil have been chosen as Practical County's spokespersons for the cattle industry?
How much sense did that make?
“Piggy,” I asked, “you don't think I should be in that stupid old Beef Princess pageant, do you?”
Without so much as a blink of his big black eyes, Piggy turned his nose to my cheek and nuzzled my ear. I wrapped my arms around his neck and squeezed.
“I knew you'd understand,” I told him lovingly.
Beside us, Mule let out a loud bellow.
“Who asked you?” I grumbled. Then I put the brush away and turned out the lights.
Some decisions in life are made with our hearts. Some are made with our heads. Sometimes, as I learned in early May of the year of Piggy and Mule, we make choices based not upon what we want, but what makes the most sense.
Susan had been out to the farm a half-dozen times to check on Piggy's progress. It had been a long, difficult month with Piggy hurt and Mule bellowing his fool head off in the next pen.
Piggy still wouldn't put his full weight on that right leg and he walked like a crippled old man.
“Give him a cane,” Frannie suggested.
I wasn't in the mood for her antics.
“Frannie,” I started, my patience just about gone, “do you know what you are? You're a—”
“Dorable?” she asked, head tipped to one side, eyelashes batting.
There was such a thing as too cute, and when Frannie crossed that line, it made me want to puke. Suddenly, I had an awful thought. No, more like a vision. I could picture Frannie growing up to be a Darling. All prissy and self-centered. She was well on her way. Oh no, I couldn't let that happen!
Note to self: Fix Frannie before it's too late.
But first, I needed to fix Piggy before it was too late.
Susan's truck pulled up the gravel lane just as the sun was setting. I loved how the days stretched out longer and longer in May until we slid into summer before we even realized the season had changed. This year, though, I wasn't anxious for summer to arrive. I needed to buy some time. Time for Piggy to heal.
Susan parked her truck in front of the barn.
“Hi, Libby. How's Piggy today?”
“He's doing great,” I answered enthusiastically. I was really hoping she'd give me the go-ahead to take him to the fair in July.
Susan nodded but said nothing. Dad came out of the house and joined us at the gate beside Piggy's pen. I stroked Piggy's head.
“He's looking much better,” Susan told us. “But he's really not using that leg like he should.
“Walk him once for me, would you, Libby?” she asked, her forehead wrinkled under her curly bangs.
I hopped into the pen, haltered Piggy, and then took him for a couple of rounds inside the fence. It wasn't easy for Piggy. He hobbled more than I thought he would.
Over at the gate, Dad and Susan spoke too quietly for me to hear.
“He'll make it, then?” I asked when I finally brought Piggy back, tying his lead rope to the fence.
“Well, yes, he'll make it, Libby. I never doubted that.”
Susan sounded like she was choosing her words cautiously.
“About the fair, Libby,” Dad started. “Piggy's not exactly a show calf in his condition, I'm afraid.”
I stopped scratching Piggy's ears. He put his head under my arm and lifted it several times as if to coax me to continue.
“But I could still show him if I wanted to, right?”
I looked to Susan for confirmation. She looked at Dad. So did I. I already knew what was coming.
“Listen, Lib, all along I've been telling you that Mule's the better animal,” he said.
“Better how?”
“Better all around. He's got a better frame. And he's filling out that frame just about as good as I've seen any calf fill out. And he's got a nice disposition.”
“Dad!” I nearly sputtered. “He's stubborn! Remember, that's why we named him Mule!”
“Oh, he's as calm as they come. He just won't walk, but we can work with him on that.”
“Okay then, he's lazy!”
Dad laughed. I didn't see anything funny about the conversation.
Susan smiled.
“Think of it this way, Libby,” she said. “At least you didn't lose Piggy on that morning in March. He's a great steer, he made it most of the way to market weight.”
What was she saying?
“Chances are,” Susan continued, “he won't gain much more anyway, because he likely won't eat well in his condition.”
That was crazy. Piggy always ate well. He was Piggy, after all. But since his accident he had gone off feed twice for a day or two. He really hadn't gained any weight.
I turned to Dad for support.
“Dad…”
“Libby, Susan and I agree that the best thing to do is to sell Piggy now. I don't want to take a chance on that leg getting any worse. You know that stockyards only take animals that can walk in on foot. We need to cut our losses and sell him right away.”
Dad sounded so matter-of-fact, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It was like he was making a business decision, not talking about my sweet Piggy.
Sell Piggy now? I felt the tears burn my eyes at the thought. Before the fair? Before he got a shot at Grand Champion? That was so wrong.
“No, Dad! We can't sell him.” The sound of my trembling voice only made matters worse.
I couldn't fall apart in front of Susan. I didn't want her to see me bawling like a baby. I bit my lip hard to keep it together, but my stomach was in knots.
“He's big enough already that he's going to make great freezer beef,” Susan said, as if that somehow made it all okay. “Every market animal gets sold eventually, right?”
I didn't know what to say. Of course, she was right. I'd known since I was a little girl that the animals in our pasture would end up in someone's freezer, on someone's table. But somehow I'd made it so much more. All these months, I had made it about Piggy, my companion, my … pet.
“That's right,” Dad agreed, a certain finality in his voice.
He brushed his hands off on the front of his coat.
“Raising good-quality beef is what this farm is all about.”
It was lunchtime the following day at school before I could fill Carol Ann in on Susan's latest report and Dad's completely insensitive decision to sell Piggy. We carried our trays to an empty table in the corner of the noisy cafeteria and sat down.
“It just came from out of the blue, Carol Ann,” I said, venting. “My dad just up and decided that a crippled calf isn't worth feeding any longer.”
Carol Ann opened her milk carton, but not before turning it over to check the expiration date.
“You know, Libby, raising beef isn't my forte, but it seems to me that the reason you feed a calf is to make him bigger, right?”
I nodded.
“And bigger is better for turning that steer into a great steak, right?”
Carol Ann had such a way of making everything so black-and-white.
“To a point,” I explained. “You don't want a steer to get too fat.”
“Okay, so bigger is good, but too big is bad.”
I nodded again, not sure where Carol Ann was headed with this. She pulled a pencil from her binder and started scratching numbers on her napkin.
“Okay, so how much do you think Piggy weighs now?” she asked.
“Maybe nine hundred and fifty pounds,” I guessed.
“So if today's cattle market is three dollars a pound, then he's worth about two thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars, right?”
That sounded about right.
“Okay, so say he's not eating well,” she continued. “He doesn't gain any more weight, and instead starts to lose a few pounds a week.”
I was starting to figure where Carol Ann was headed, and I didn't like it much.
“So, see, Libby, your
dad's decision makes the most sense. It's called cutting your losses, quitting while you're ahead.”
Carol Ann was seeing this whole situation from a business perspective, just like Dad. I glanced down at my lunch tray. A lukewarm hamburger and soggy fries stared up at me. Why do people eat this stuff?
Carol Ann knew how much Piggy meant to me, so why was she taking Dad's side? Just as I was about to tell her she was being an insensitive brainiac, she came through for me.
“Of course,” she said, “that's looking at it from the practical side. And you know, the farmers in this county in-vented practical.”
She laughed at her own play on words, then got serious.
“But, wow, Lib. Selling Piggy? Now, before you even get to show him, is awful. I'm so sorry.”
Carol Ann's brown eyes were filled with concern, and she looked as though if I cried, she'd break down and bawl great big old tears of sympathy right alongside me.
“I just can't believe Dad was so cold about the whole thing. I think both of my parents are going nuts, Carol Ann.”
“Your mom, too? What's up with her?”
I had never mentioned the Beef Princess pageant to Carol Ann. I knew she'd despise the idea.
I looked around to be sure no one could hear me. Between the clatter of silverware against trays and the roar of a hundred middle school students talking, I was sure I was safe.
“She wants me to enter this year's Beef Princess pageant,” I said in a low voice. “Isn't that the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard?”
I knew Carol Ann would be all over this one. I was certain she would tear apart the whole idea in a heartbeat, which was why I nearly fell off my chair when I heard her say, “That's perfect!”
“What?”
“Oh, Libby, this is just too great.”
She was on the edge of her seat now, her untouched tray pushed to the center of the table.
“You know, don't you, what a travesty it is that those atrocious Darling sisters keep winning that pageant? And, yes, it is a pageant, but there is so much more to it than a beauty contest.”
“But—” I started to protest. Too late. There was no stop-ping the wheels in Carol Ann's mind once they were in motion. And now they were turning full speed ahead.
“Somebody has to stop them, Lib. Think of it, you could be the hero that saved Practical County's beef industry.”
That was a little over-the-top even for Carol Ann. But her thoughts were not far from those I'd had brushing Piggy in the barn the night I'd snapped at Mom.
“I don't know, Carol Ann.”
“Listen to me,” she said in her most logical voice. “The Darlings have managed to make a mockery out of this pageant for four years running. They shouldn't represent the beef industry. They can't raise beef, they can't talk intelligently about beef, and they are lousy showmen. Am I right?”
“You are right!” I declared. Her impassioned pleas were starting to work.
“So you'll do it?” she asked with a hopeful expression.
“Maybe. I guess I could.”
My ears could hardly believe what my own mouth was saying.
“Yes! You'll be awesome, Libby! I know it!”
“You know what, Carol Ann?”
“What?”
“You should go into politics.”
“Oh, no, I don't think so,” she replied. “I'm too smart for that!”
I took another look at the no-longer-warm hamburger on my tray. It didn't look very appetizing. It made me think of the Cattlemen's burgers at the fair: hot, thick, and juicy. So good that a slice of cheese was all a person needed to plop on top. No need to smother a Cattlemen's Club hamburger in ketchup. Just thinking about it made my mouth water. In a few short months, I could have all the Cattlemen's burgers I could eat. I was just about to force myself to take a bite of my less than appealing cafeteria burger when the bell rang, signaling the end of our lunch period.
“Thank goodness!” I declared, standing with my tray. Behind me, my chair hit something with a loud thud.
I turned to see the back of my chair smack-dab against the back of a chair from the table behind me. And who had just stood and pushed that chair back? None other than Ohma Darling herself. We just stood there, looking first at the collided chairs and then at each other.
Had she heard the conversation between Carol Ann and me? My brain did a quick rewind and replayed what was said. I was reasonably sure we hadn't said anything like, “Ohma Darling is the grouchiest, oddest, and most un-queenlike person to ever enter the Practical County Beef Princess pageant.”
Well, at least we hadn't said anything like that out loud. But we had talked about how very wrong it was to allow the Darlings to represent the cattle growers of Practical County.
I made a quick decision to act like she had heard nothing.
“Hi, Ohma.” I smiled.
“Move,” Ohma growled.
Well, so much for hearing nothing.
I stepped aside, even though Ohma was far less threatening than her vicious older sisters.
Carol Ann saw an opportunity to confront Ohma and grabbed it.
“What were you doing spying on us in the ladies’ room at the soup kitchen? And don't deny it. We know you were in there!”
Ohma was silent for a moment, and then she opened her mouth to speak. I waited to hear what she would say when she didn't have her sisters around to imitate.
“I didn't… I … my sister … I wasn't…,” she stammered, as a look of distress spread across her round, red face. Finally, she just let out a loud “UGH!” and ran from the cafeteria.
Carol Ann and I had no idea what to think.
“That is the most unusual human being I have ever met,” Carol Ann declared.
We dumped our trays and headed to class before the next bell.
At home that night, I decided to tell Mom that I'd made a decision. I was setting the table and she was draining the pasta for supper.
“I've been thinking about the Beef Princess pageant.”
Mom's head snapped up, her eyeglasses steamy from the boiling pasta water.
“You have?” she asked, putting the pot on the stovetop. She walked over to me, wiping her glasses with her shirttail.
“Yeah, well, I guess, if you want me to …”
A huge smile spread across Mom's face, and I hadn't even finished yet.
“I could maybe enter the pageant this year.”
Mom was all over me in a heartbeat, hugging me and grinning ear to ear. I knew she'd be happy, but she was ecstatic.
“Oh, Libby! This will be so much fun! We'll go shopping and we can take Carol Ann along, too, if you'd like. You won't regret it.”
She nearly danced around the kitchen as she put dinner on the table. I was glad that I could make her that happy just by agreeing to do something she suggested. Seeing Mom so thrilled was reason enough to have changed my mind. But the real reason was the one that had come to me in the barn, the one that Carol Ann had confirmed earlier that day. And that was to make sure another year didn't go by with a Darling sister representing the beef growers of Practical County.
That, however, meant that I not only had to enter the Beef Princess pageant, I had to win it.
On the final Saturday in May, Dad drained the last of the coffee from his John Deere mug and announced, “It's time, Libby. I'm taking Piggy in today.”
In. I knew what in meant. In to town. In to McClure's Slaughterhouse.
It had been two weeks since Dad had decided that Piggy would be sold, so I wasn't surprised by the news. But I wasn't ready, either.
“You coming along?”
I pushed the eggs around on my plate with the back of my fork. I certainly wasn't going along.
“No.”
“Libby, you really should come with me. You need to, you know, see this project through to the end.”
I raised my eyes to figure out if this last statement was a suggestion or an order. Dad had a determined look on his fa
ce. A that's-the-way-it's-going-to-be look.
I'd been to McClure's many times. When I was little, it was such a treat to ride along when Dad and Granddad took a load of steers. While the men unloaded out back, Ronnie and I would run into the front store and Mrs. McClure would hand us each a stick of spicy, chewy beef jerky. It would last all the way home.
Even the fond memories of McClure's couldn't convince me to jump in Dad's truck that day and lead Piggy to slaughter.
I messed with my eggs a minute longer.
“Well, if you're not going along, you can at least go get his halter on him,” Dad instructed. “I'll pull the truck and trailer up to the barn.”
I couldn't believe he was being so mean. I didn't want to go to the barn, I didn't want to see Piggy, and I didn't want to say goodbye.
He took his hat from the rack beside the door and was almost gone when I stopped him to ask the question I'd been dreading asking for the last two weeks.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Is Piggy going to end up … I mean, are we going to…”
I didn't want to say it out loud.
“Eat the meat ourselves?” Dad finished for me.
That was what I hadn't wanted to ask.
“No, Lib,” he said. “I sold half to a neighbor and the other half to Mom's boss, Roger. Our freezer's plenty full as it is. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said, and out the door he went.
It was a relief knowing that Piggy was going someplace other than our table. Eating our own beef was nothing new to me. It was just that our other steers never had personalities. I'd never gotten to know them before. And I'd never given them names.
Careful there, Dad had said months ago. Fair calves don't need names.
“Are you all right, Libby?” Mom asked, pulling out a chair at the breakfast table.
I pushed my plate away. I was done playing with my eggs.
“This isn't the way this was supposed to happen, Mom. Piggy should have gone to the fair.”
“Things don't always work out the way we plan, Lib.”
What a typical mother answer.
The Beef Princess of Practical County Page 7