The Beef Princess of Practical County

by Michelle Houts

  “I just didn't think I'd get so attached to my steers.”

  “Well, that's to be expected when you spend as much time with any animal as you've spent with Piggy and Mule.”

  “They are so wonderful, Mom,” I tried to explain. “They have personality. Piggy is sweet and Mule is stubborn, but they're both so gentle.”

  “I know, kiddo. I am sure it is really hard to say goodbye.”

  Goodbye. I had to go say goodbye. I slipped into my boots by the back door and went slowly out to the barn. Piggy was lying down in the straw. Mule stood near the door that led to the outside lot. When he saw me, Piggy got up. He came right over, his crooked gait more obvious than ever.

  I was already crying. There was nothing I could say to him to make this moment feel any different. Piggy nuzzled my hand for food and I felt his rough, wet tongue lick my palm.

  I could hear the pickup truck pulling up to the barn, and I knew Dad was waiting. Piggy's red rope halter slipped effortlessly over his ears, he didn't even twitch them. I opened the gate and led him out of his pen.

  Dad appeared in the doorway, his square jaw set.

  “Ready?”

  “No.”

  “It's time to go.”

  I buried my face in Piggy's velvety neck as the tears poured from my eyes.

  “Goodbye, Pig” was all I could manage to choke out.

  Dad took the lead rope from my shaking hands and led Piggy into the stock trailer, latching the gate behind him.

  “Sure you don't want to go along?” he asked once more.

  I couldn't speak. I shook my head and turned back to the barn. The sound of the pickup grew fainter as it traveled down the gravel lane to the road, but I didn't turn around to see it go.

  Back inside the barn, Mule bawled once, loudly, and paced slowly from one end of the pen to the other. I put my head down on the feed bunk, wondering if the tears would ever stop. If saying goodbye to my steers was going to be this hard, maybe Dad was right. Maybe showing steers wasn't for me after all.

  Just then I felt a familiar nudge, a wet leathery nose that, for a split second, made me wonder if Piggy was still there. I lifted my head to find Mule softly nuzzling my tear-soaked face. I had never noticed how very blue his eyes were. He moaned quietly, and I realized that he, too, would have to adjust to life without Piggy.

  The very next day, Mom, Carol Ann, and I were shopping at the mall in Warsaw. Mom was convinced a girls’ day out was just what I needed to chase away the Piggy blues. Trouble was, the reason for the trip was enough to send me back into the depths of self-pity all over again. We were on a mission, out to find a dress suitable for a pageant that I wasn't too sure I wanted to be part of in the first place.

  It really was a stretch to call the shopping center a mall. With barely a dozen stores, it was nothing like what they had in Fort Wayne or Indianapolis. But even Warsaw had more to offer than Nowhere.

  We were in Betty's Boutique (the name alone should have been warning enough) and I was in the dressing room with several potential pageant dresses hanging around me. I looked in the mirror at what I had worn from home. Jeans, a plain blue T-shirt, and flip-flops.

  Nothing wrong with that, I thought.

  But Mom and Carol Ann were camped out just outside the dressing room door, waiting for me to appear wearing something fancier than my everyday clothes.

  “Try the teal one on first, Libby,” Mom hollered loud enough for the entire boutique to hear.

  “I'm right here, Mom,” I grumbled through the cardboard-thin door that was open at the top and bottom. “You don't need to yell.”

  I wasn't sure, but I thought I heard Carol Ann snicker.

  Okay, let's get this over with.

  I took the teal dress from its hanger and held it up in front me while I looked in the mirror. Ugh. It had puffy sleeves and tons of fluff around the skirt. I pulled it over my head and opened the door, looking around to see if anyone else was in the boutique besides Mom, Carol Ann, and Betty, the somewhat robust shop owner who made it her business to tell customers exactly what she thought they wanted to hear.

  “Oh, darling, you look simply adorable,” Betty cooed, adjusting the glasses she had just snatched from the chain around her neck.

  I really wished she hadn't said “darling.”

  I had taken one small step outside of the dressing room when she grabbed my elbow and pulled me in front of three mirrors. The outer two were tilted inward to catch the reflection from the one in between.

  Oh, great, now I get to see my hideous self in multiples of three.

  Mom agreed with Betty. Carol Ann just sort of scrunched up her nose and lips and gave me a subtle head shake. I didn't need to be told more than once. I ducked back into the dressing room and shed the teal fluff as fast as I could.

  The next one was pink. It had a little pink around the neckline and a pink overlay on the skirt. It also had a light pink sash and dark pink sleeves. And did I mention it was pink?

  Again, I ventured out of the dressing room to be met with applause from the adults and a look of horror from Carol Ann.

  “That one is just precious, dear!” Betty exclaimed. Once again, a poor choice of adjectives.

  I took a long look in the three-way mirror and had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. I was certain I had seen the ruffly, pink image in the mirror before. In a cartoon, maybe. Flying, dipping in and out of chimneys, waving a magic wand and spreading magic dust all over the Land of La-Di-Dah. I looked like a fairy.

  “Try the yellow one,” Carol Ann suggested, and I shot her a glare. The yellow one had feathers on it. It screamed Big Bird to me.

  She shrugged as if to tell me there wasn't much she could do about my unfortunate situation. It went on like that for almost an hour. Too short. Too long. Too Cinderellaish. Too ugly stepsisterish. One wispy ruffled dress after another until the dressing room was so piled with pastel tulle it looked like a clown had melted on the floor.

  When I eventually emerged from the dressing room in my own comfy jeans, Mom was just breaking the news to Betty that we hadn't found what we were looking for.

  That was a relief. Mom wasn't going to insist that we “make something work,” as she so often did when we shopped.

  “Thank you so much,” Mom politely told Betty, who seemed a little rattled that we hadn't fallen in love with a single dress she had to offer, and we ducked out of the boutique without a dress.

  On the front porch that evening, while Mom read a real estate magazine and Dad held an issue of Beef Producer on his chest as he snored in his rocker, I sat watching Frannie chase lightning bugs around the yard. The ones that didn't escape her grasp were stuffed into a mayonnaise jar with holes punched in the lid. She was making her own night-light before bedtime.

  Although it wasn't unusual to spend summer evenings on the front porch, there was a reason why no one was in-side tonight. Mom's eyes frequently left her magazine to check the road from the west. Ronnie's truck would pull in any minute from West Lafayette, and he'd be home from college for the whole summer.

  Waiting never was one of my strengths. I came down from the porch and slipped away while Frannie plucked more bugs from the air. I didn't really want her to go to the barn with me. I hadn't ventured in there since Dad had taken Piggy, and I was curious to see how Mule was doing.

  “That animal's been crying his fool head off,” Dad had told me when we arrived home from our unsuccessful shop-ping trip.

  It was no surprise to me. Mule hadn't been without Piggy since they were both just days old, and I felt more than a tiny bit sorry for him.

  The tall, heavy sliding door was already open to let in the coolness of the early-summer evening. Mule was standing in the pen, looking very alone and making sure the whole farm could hear his complaint.

  “Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.” It was a sad, low noise.

  “I know, Mule. I miss Piggy, too.”

  The straw in the corner where Piggy liked to lie was still matted down. Mule p
aced anxiously around the pen. It was the most I'd ever seen him move.

  He looked nice, clean and smooth, long and lean. I had been so consumed with Piggy's accident, I hadn't noticed how much Mule had filled out. He looked straight and strong. He even seemed a little more willing to cooperate with me when I talked to him. Had I misjudged him all this time? Or had I just favored Piggy so much that I'd failed to see Mule for what he was?

  His muscular sides twitched to shake off an occasional horsefly. I grabbed a can of fly spray and joined him in his pen. He stood still while I sprayed him down.

  “There, that should keep you more comfortable.”

  “How about a little walk around the barnyard?” I asked as I slid the halter over his big, fuzzy ears. They twitched back and forth. I clipped the lead rope onto the halter and opened the gate.

  “Come on, big guy,” I coaxed, and to my amazement he walked right away. Maybe he was losing some of that stubborn streak.

  Smoothly, he strode around the barnyard, his huge hooves crunching in the gravel. I pulled him from the front, tugging now and then to keep him going.

  “That's the way, Mule,” I praised him. He was a beautiful animal, pitch-black and velvety, with those gorgeous blue eyes. Why had it taken me so long to notice those wonder-ful eyes?

  “Looks like you got him trained.”

  The familiar voice came from behind me.

  “Ronnie!”

  “Hey, Lib. I just pulled in and saw the lights in the barn.”

  “Look at how good Mule is walking tonight.”

  Ronnie walked over and patted Mule's side.

  “I was just noticing that. I can see you've been working with them.”

  I winced when he said them. He must have noticed.

  “I heard about Piggy being sold.”

  “It wasn't fair, Ronnie,” I started to protest.

  “Now, listen, Lib. A crippled steer isn't a profitable in-vestment.”

  I should have known I was wasting my breath. He and Dad were just too alike.

  “I know. I heard it all from Dad.”

  Ronnie was kind enough to let it go.

  “Well, I see Mule's learned a lot since I was last home. But it looks like you could use some work.”

  Me? What was wrong with me?

  “Take him around again, and let me see what you're doing.”

  I frowned. I wasn't sure I wanted to be judged by my big brother.

  “Go on. I'll give you some pointers.”

  I tugged on Mule's lead rope to get him moving again. He hesitated a few seconds but then got going. We made a quick circle and stopped in front of Ronnie.

  “There,” I said. “No problems.”

  “Well, no, if you're taking your steer for a walk,” Ronnie explained. “But you're not. You're showing the animal, Libby. Here, let me have him.”

  I handed the rope to Ronnie.

  “You be the judge,” he said.

  “Well, I think I like this better.” I smiled.

  “What I mean is, you stand in the center of what we'll pretend is the show arena. Right here.”

  He made a mark in the gravel with the toe of his boot.

  “The judge is going to be in the center while the animals are walking.”

  “I know that, Ronnie. Are you forgetting that I've watched you show steers since I was Frannie's age?”

  “I know you know, but have you ever looked at the show from the judge's perspective?”

  He had a point. I'd never thought of that.

  I stood in the middle of our make-believe arena while Ronnie walked Mule around me several times.

  “Notice where I am,” Ronnie called from behind Mule.

  “I can't see you very well,” I answered.

  “Bingo!” Ronnie replied. “That's just what you want. It's not you that the judge needs to see. It's the animal. So you want to keep the animal between you and the judge at all times.”

  That made sense. I was sure no one had ever explained that to the Darlings. Whenever they were in the arena, they were trying to be the center of attention.

  “Now,” Ronnie continued, “I'm taller than you are, so I can see over Mule's head. That's important because I need to keep my eye on the judge at all times. Let's switch places.”

  I took hold of Mule's rope and Ronnie once again became the judge.

  “Oh no! I can't see you over Mule's head.”

  “That's what I thought. Just take a step backward, keep ahold of the rope close to the halter, and straighten your arm.”

  I did as Ronnie said and it worked. Now that I had backed away a little, I could see Ronnie's face right over Mule's shoulder.

  “Okay, go around again.”

  I tugged to get Mule going, but he wouldn't move. I tugged again. Nothing.

  He was up to his old tricks. I let out a long, exasperated sigh and pulled harder.

  “Wait,” said Ronnie, stepping out of his judge's role to help me. “First of all, never let your frustration show. As a showman you must remain calm and in control at all times.” He smiled and added, “Even if you're not.”

  Then he took the rope from my hands and said, “Try this.”

  Ronnie held the rope firmly at the halter and pulled quickly on it, then let go. Mule felt the pull forward, and expecting it to continue, he pulled back to resist. When Ronnie didn't continue to pull, Mule stopped resisting. One more short tug and release and Mule stepped forward.

  It was amazing.

  “What a cool trick!” I exclaimed as Ronnie and Mule started around the invisible arena. “What else can you show me?”

  Ronnie laughed.

  “I'll give you some pointers on how to set him up and then we'll call it a night.”

  Ronnie showed me how to use the long silver show stick to place Mule's feet in perfect position. It was important to keep him set up before the judge, he explained.

  “Go ahead, now,” said Ronnie. “You set him up.”

  I took a long look at Mule's hooves. His right leg was too far forward, so I took the show stick and poked it gently into the crevice in his hoof. He lifted that leg and set it right back down in the same spot.

  I did the same thing again. And so did Mule. One more time with the stick, and Mule placed his hoof right where it had been before.

  Okay, if I couldn't move his right leg back, I'd move his left leg forward. I felt like an absolute genius for thinking of that. Carol Ann would have been proud.

  I used the stick, which had a tiny hook that wrapped around Mule's hoof, to pull forward just a bit on his left leg. Like magic he responded, taking one small step with his left foot.

  A quick check of his front legs, his beautiful straight back, and I knew I had it.

  “There. Done!” I declared triumphantly to Ronnie. No sooner had the words left my lips than Mule shifted his weight, wiggled backward a step or two, and took one big step forward, leaving all four legs out of position. I was right back where I started from.

  Ronnie had made it look so easy. But when I tried, Mule didn't cooperate at all. I tried again and again, but every time I got him set up perfectly, he stepped out of it, and I had to start all over from the beginning.

  Finally, exhausted and frustrated, I pulled Mule over to Ronnie and surrendered.

  “I give up,” I announced. “I am supposed to do all this and keep my eyes on the judge? You've got to be kidding!”

  Ronnie patted my shoulder as he led Mule to drink before putting him away for the night. “You're doing just fine, Libby. We've got plenty of time this summer to refine your technique.”

  I wished I had half the confidence Ronnie had.

  When school let out, the countdown began.

  Six more weeks until the Practical County Fair. Five more weeks until the Practical County Fair. Most years I counted the days with excitement, anticipating the most celebrated week of the year. I looked forward to running around the midway with Carol Ann, bumping into class-mates I hadn't seen all summer, che
wing on gooey caramel apples, and, of course, devouring the tastiest burgers ever made by the Cattlemen's Association.

  This summer, the huge feeling of anticipation was still there, but I found that when my thoughts turned to the Practical County Fair, a certain, well, uncertainty made my stomach flip-flop just a little. The carefree days of being the little sister were behind me. I had the responsibility of showing Mule. And I had the Beef Princess pageant staring me in the face. Even the thought of a juicy Cattlemen's burger was less appetizing than it had been in the past.

  Ronnie and I took Mule out to the feedlot daily to practice walking and setting up his feet so that he would stand just right for the judge. By the end of the month, I was feeling more confident in Mule's ability to behave himself at the fair.

  “It looks like you're my only shot at Grand Champion, Mule,” I told him after a fine practice session. For the first time, I was convinced of something Dad and Granddad had known for a long time: Mule was indeed a Grand Champion contender.

  If only I had been able to find that same sense of confidence about the Beef Princess pageant. Things in that department were not going well at all. Ohma had definitely overheard the part of the conversation between Carol Ann and me when I said I'd enter the pageant, and she had no doubt told her sisters, who were taking advantage of every opportunity to point out that the title of Practical County Beef Princess had remained in the Darling family for years.

  The Darling sisters were easy enough to ignore once school was out, but in a town the size of Nowhere, you run into folks everywhere. And the canned-goods aisle at the IGA is no exception.

  That was where I was on a Friday evening in June, when I ran into Lil and Ohma. Mom and Frannie were on the other side of the store, and I was searching for a can of marinated artichokes. The two younger Darling sisters were fighting with each other. I heard them before they even came into view.

  “Shut up, Lil. You don't know what you're talking about.”

  That was Ohma, for sure. I would have known that low, grumbling voice anywhere.

  “Oh, please. You are just jealous that I can wear the dress and your pinky toe won't even fit in it.”