by Rick Rivera
“I’m sorry, Mitch,” she said, switching her tone as she confronted the fork in the discursive road. “Buying this place has been stressful for me. Everything happened so fast. I’m feeling such pressure from thinking about making the payments and all the money I have to put into this place just to get a respectable boarding operation up and running. I bought this ranch for Mickey because he wanted to get out of the construction business, and he wants to ride horses and rope. And I’d like to do that too. But it’s costing so much.”
“Jacqueline,” Mitch said “I really think we can help you. There’s a lot of work to do around here, but it can get done, as Salvador and Place say, ‘poco a poco,’ which means that little by little things will start looking better. Maybe I can get some horses onto this property. I can probably have them within a month. You’ll have some income from that starting sooner than you thought you would. But really, Jacqueline, this ranch needs to be fixed up first. And your pocketbook can’t afford to lose a hand like Salvador. Just think about it. Come on, I’ll show you what we’ve worked on this week.”
Mitch showed Jacqueline the inside of the ranch house first. She was tearing down old wallpaper and preparing the walls for painting as Jacqueline had asked. The old doors would be sanded and revarnished next. The enormous job of refurbishing the floors would take time as the old carpet needed to be ripped out and the worn linoleum had to be peeled from the kitchen and bathrooms. Jacqueline and Mitch then walked out toward the pastures and barns. Mitch made pointing motions to the left and right, showing her where they had cleaned, pruned, or moved something.
From his kitchen window, which was blocked by his outhouse, Salvador leaned over the sink and stretched his neck at an angle. With a sliver of a view, he watched the two women as they walked around the ranch. In the milk barn, Mickey stretched, scratched an armpit, wiggled his toes, wiped his eyes of sleep, and decided to wake up.
Jacqueline was not satisfied with the slow progress, but she did feel better. Mitch knew of the importance of evidence, and she made it a point to walk Jacqueline all the way to the end of the property and then over to the western portion of the ranch. It was a long walk, and most of the way Jacqueline stopped frequently to catch her breath or rest her legs, pretending to inspect a gate or check to see that a waterer had been cleaned. Mitch emphasized what was occurring with the irrigation and explained to Jacqueline the finer points of what her contract with the water district called for. She showed Jacqueline the cleaner barns and pointed out the neatly shaped shrubs and trees as well as the lawns surrounding the ranch house that were already showing deeper shades of green despite the late season.
Returning to the milk barn, they met Mickey, who greeted Mitch and expressed a distinct pleasure with the progress in such a short time.
Jacqueline remained unconcerned as Mickey complimented Mitch. “You guys really did some work around here. I can see a big difference already. It looks great. Well, we better tend to those cows.”
“What cows?” Mitch asked.
Behind the barn was a stock trailer with six calves. Mickey had purchased them on the way to the ranch, and they would be the first pasture tenants. Jacqueline’s and Mickey’s horses would come up next week.
“What do you plan to do with them?” Mitch asked.
“Raise them for beef,” Mickey answered. “If you want to live like country folks, you do what you can to raise your own food.”
Mitch did not like the idea of cows on the ranch, but since it was not her property, she was not going to point out to Jacqueline and Mickey that the fencing on this ranch was suited primarily for horses. With their tendency to push and lean and want their sides scratched, cows would do a considerable amount of damage to the wood and hogwire fences of StarRidge Ranch. The fence would be bowed in no time. Perhaps the Kittles thought that since there was an old milk barn on the property, the ranch could accommodate cows. Mitch had wondered too about a milk barn on what was previously a thoroughbred setup. When she went to the title company and county recorder’s office to research the history of StarRidge Ranch, she discovered that decades ago it had been a dairy, and the only remaining artifact to indicate that was the bonnet-roofed milk barn; the rest of the ranch had long since been redesigned for horses. She found out too that the little round house that Salvador lived in was what the county referred to as a “non-permitted dwelling” marked as uninhabitable due to new sewage regulations. Like Salvador, the help house was illegal.
“Where do you plan on putting them?” Mitch asked.
“I was going to put them in one of the smaller pastures,” Mickey answered. “They don’t need too much space for right now. The guy I bought them from said that we should probably give them all a bolus too. You know what that is?”
Mitch thought for a few moments before answering. She was starting to regret that she had lied about Manfredi’s letter of recommendation and the other two mendacious documents. Once a lie was produced in one place, it could come back in a different form in another. And it became harder to justify and convince while still sorting through the dirty laundry of falsehoods that often mixed with delicate garments of truth. Jacqueline and Mickey apparently had not read Mitch’s portion of the resume, Mitch thought, that said she had managed a dairy operation in Colorado. Maybe they forgot, she guessed. And then she told Mickey and Jacqueline all about what a bolus was.
“Now, that depends. Basically a bolus is just a big pill. But there are different types of boluses. Are you giving them a bolus for scours or deworming or what? Do you have a balling gun? Also, with all due respect, I suggest that you might consider putting your calves in one of the larger pastures, preferably one that has a holding pen contiguous to it. That way you can bolus each calf individually, unloading it from the trailer to the holding pen and then setting it loose in the pasture.”
Mitch caught herself and realized from the day of the interview that Jacqueline and Mickey did not like her omniscient answers and advice. She added carefully, “I realize you folks are primarily horse people. I do know a little about cattle. I can help if you want.”
Jacqueline declined as an impressed Mickey accepted Mitch’s offer.
“Let me drive down to one of the pastures to get things in position,” Mickey said, his voice rich with excitement. “Jacqueline, would you fetch my rope?”
The six calves were unloaded into a large pasture. Mickey drove the pickup with the stock trailer hitched to it out of the way, and he, Jacqueline, and Mitch watched as the calves inspected their new arrangement. These were Holstein heifers, dairy stock, and probably culls, as most dairies wouldn’t let go of a good potential milker. Mitch wondered why Mickey would purchase these calves for beef rather than the more desirable and better meat-producing, black-bodied and white-faced or Angus bull calf. But Mitch was also starting to grow accustomed to the pattern of ranch business the way the Kittles conducted it.
Mickey swung his rope over his head a few times and aimed the lasso at a fence post. After missing repeatedly, he declared he was ready. Mitch was concerned that the cattle had been released from the trailer into the open pasture all at once instead of situating the trailer close to one of the holding pens and cutting one calf out at a time, as she assumed would be done. She was interested to see how Mickey’s method would work. Perhaps there was a new way of administering medication, she thought, as she realized that she had not worked with cattle for over fifteen years.
Mickey instructed Jacqueline and Mitch to help him track down one of the now free-ranging calves. Once they were close enough, he would lasso the animal and they could drag it to the holding pen where they could restrain it and stuff a bolus down its throat.
They stalked the first randomly chosen creature all the way to the far end of the pasture until it was cornered. On the way, the calf periodically stopped, ate some grass, and would lope away a little until it felt safe from its pursuers. Then it ran into a corner and would have to burst through a phalanx made up of Jacqueline yell
ing “yaa! yaa!”, Mitch approaching cautiously and murmuring, “So, boss, it’s okay, boss,” and Mickey swinging his loaded lariat high over his head.
He shot the noose at the calf’s head and missed. It ran to another corner of the pasture. They tramped over to where the calf was eating, suspiciously now, and again Mickey readied his loop. Mitch signaled to Jacqueline to close ranks on her side, and when she did, Mickey hurled the lasso again. This time he grazed the calf’s head. He gathered up his rope quickly before the young animal could run to another corner. He made his loop even bigger, and running up to the calf, he mugged it by swinging the opening of the lasso over its head. Mickey grabbed the end of his rope and pulled hard. The calf choked out a grunt before lunging forward in a panic. Mitch jumped close to the calf and holding it in a headlock, tried to ease its fear with low, susurrous sounds. Mickey continued to pull back on the rope as if the animal had been sentenced to hang.
“Where’s the bolus?” Mitch managed to ask as she continued her tight grip. “You might just try it here. This baby weighs about three hundred pounds, and I don’t think it will let us drag it all the way to the holding pen. But first cut some slack or nothing will go down its throat with your rope pulled so tight.”
“I have it—right—here,” Mickey sputtered as he reached into his pocket with his free hand and tried to approach the front of the calf at the same time.
Jacqueline, seeing the impending struggle, scrambled up on the fence.
“Okay, hold on to him, Mitch,” Mickey said. “I’m going to stuff it in his mouth.”
The calf, however, did not feel that Mickey’s plan was really conducive to its own well-being. As he swung his hand up to the creature’s mouth, it switched ends on him quickly so that now he aimed for the part that was called rump roast once the cow had been butchered. Mitch maintained a fierce headlock on the calf as she dug her heels into the ground, and the bovine switched and bucked and jerked. Mickey’s legs were scissor-locked around one of the calf’s front legs now as he held onto the noose with one hand and aimed with his fist at the beast’s mouth. But the animal had much more self-esteem than anyone had realized. It stepped sideways and bumped Mickey into the fence, then switched again. In the dervish of motion, the rope continued to wrap around both the young cow’s body and Mickey’s. Mitch finally let go and cleared from the excited turmoil as Mickey rode the side of the calf while tethered to its body like Ahab to Moby Dick.
Mickey finally broke loose, and in a striking roundhouse punched the bolus into the calf’s mouth. The shocked animal ran to the middle of the pasture with the rope still around its neck. It mouthed and gummed the large pill for a few seconds, then spit it out. Mickey wiped dirt and manure off himself and shook his head quickly to regain his senses.
“A successful ride is eight seconds!” Mitch joked. “You almost had it, cowboy.”
Mickey smirked, and Jacqueline praised him. “You did fine, honey. At least you got the pill in its mouth.”
“Yeah but she spit it out too,” Mitch said pointing to the victorious calf. “That one’s been wasted. That’s why you need a balling gun. You get that bolus right down their throats with one of those.” Mitch did not wait to hear Jacqueline’s or Mickey’s response. She walked away realizing that what she had learned years ago with cattle still held true.
“Where are you going?” Jacqueline called after her.
“I have a ranch to run!” Mitch yelled without looking back and holding her arms outstretched as a way of presenting the vastness of the ranch to the owners.
Mickey determined that he would just seed the pasture with many boluses—two for each calf—and he rationalized that eventually they would walk over to one and eat it when they felt a worm coming on or had a touch of diarrhea. He didn’t remember what type of boluses the man gave him when he purchased the calves.
The weekend did not end soon enough for Mitch. Place had managed to stay busy with his regular chores and the ones that Jacqueline added later that Saturday—like washing and waxing their truck, cleaning out the stock trailer, and helping Mickey put up a large, colorful wooden sign at the entrance to the ranch that read: STARRIDGE RANCH in loud letters, and 1755 SWEET WINE ROAD in smaller letters. Mitch was also quite valuable by making dinner reservations for the country couple and finding out what the operating hours were in a nearby winery’s tasting rooms.
That evening, when Jacqueline and Mickey left for dinner, Mitch and Place walked out to the pasture and, leaning against the gate, they wondered how they could get the rope off the persevering calf.
In a dark corner of the stall barn, two thick and calloused hands dug deep into a sack of alfalfa molasses left by the owners of Thundering Thoroughbreds Ranch. Salvador reached into the middle of the sack feeling for the sweet feed that would be more moist than the crusty and dry edges of stale feed that filled up the rest of the sack. With two full buckets, he walked out to where Mitch and Place pondered the noosed calf. Salvador slipped between the horizontal rails of the gate and spread the feed out on the ground. He grabbed at his Adam’s apple and with a loud, convincing, and vibrating bellow, mooed for the calves. The ruminating animals looked up, and slowly they approached him as he continued to moo. Salvador watched the calves examine the feed and eat for a few minutes, and then calmly he slid over to the roped calf, patted its head, and removed the noose.
“Now that’s a ranch hand!” Mitch glowed as she looked at Salvador admiringly. “Gracias,” she said to him, bowing her head slightly in a show of respect. She looked at Place and said, “Tell him we aren’t going to tell Jacqueline and Mickey how the rope came off. Let them figure it out for themselves. We’ll leave it hanging on the gate. I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t notice, anyway.”
They walked up to the ranch house and sat on the deck talking and drinking beer until they heard Jacqueline and Mickey’s truck drive up. Quickly, Salvador sneaked back to his small home, and Mitch and Place went inside, not turning on any lights, deciding they had had enough for the day.
Early Sunday morning, Mitch and Place left the ranch to eat breakfast and talk without the interruptions Mitch anticipated.
“You know, honey,” Mitch began, “I knew from the start that Jacqueline and Mickey didn’t know too much, but I just didn’t realize they were close to terminally ignorant. It’s weird because they have all the right stuff in terms of clothes and boots and that fancy cowboy’s Cadillac they drive around in. But as far as any animal savvy or basic ranch know-how, those two could be classified as remedial or even preliterate. They know just enough to be dangerous.”
“When you have money it doesn’t matter,” a cynical Place commented. “Too bad ignorance isn’t against the law.”
“Well, it will matter. They need to get with it. I can’t see those two coming onto this ranch and running a boarding facility. You know, I never did find out what kind of trainer she was. And it’s funny, she hasn’t mentioned a thing about it, either. Then they brought those calves up and plan on making them live on just the pasture. Those young ones need other feed. But I didn’t tell them that. I’m just going to buy my own. You know what happened last night after I finished making my final rounds? Jacqueline told me that she and Mickey weren’t quite satisfied with our progress.”
“What?” Place asked as he suddenly stopped chewing his food. His face grew a darker shade as the anger filled his cheeks and shot through his eyes.
“You were already in the house,” Mitch explained. “Jacqueline and I had talked about the ranch work earlier, and I thought I had pointed out what she needed to realize. But last night as I was coming in, she ambushed me and wanted to talk. So she, Mickey, and I sat out on the deck, and I gave them our side of the story.”
“What do you mean ‘our side of the story’?” an increasingly angry Place asked. “We don’t have a side of a story because we don’t need one. A side of the story implies that we need to offer excuses or something like that. Let’s just get the hell out of this wh
ole thing! I promise I’ll find work someplace.”
“Now wait, honey,” Mitch urged. “I did talk to them, and they seemed to understand. I told them you’re putting in some long days with only one break. I suggested that maybe they hire Salvador. And I did tell them to give us our walking papers if they’re dissatisfied. Nobody has to get mad about anything. Look, they’ll be up next week. We’ll see what they’re like then. You just keep working.”
Mitch stopped speaking as she looked at Place and he looked down at his plate, his tired face resting on a fist as his elbow pointed into the table. She dipped her head and pushed it forward, thinking it would give her a better look at what was running through Place’s mind.