The bull stares, and his eyes shoot back and forth from the rope I hold in my hands, to my face, stern with the job I loathe, but must be done. Toad (don't ask where his name comes from. It's to do with his horns is all I know) was sold last week to a man with red cheeks and white hair whose prize bull died from mad cow and it is my job to see that Toad gets on the truck with truck and me still in one piece.
Toad backs up and drops his head as I start my long walk. My rope is in full swing as it keeps time with the swish of Toad's tail, each with the fear of what is to come. "Come boy," I soothed with a calm I did not feel. "Let's try this nice and slow." Toad still kept his eyes on me and showed no signs of ease, of calm, of he did not want to kill me. I was new to the ranch and so Toad and I had not had time to be friends. This did not bode well for all. "Tooooad" I coaxed. "This old rope is for show. Don't you mind it at all." Quick as a wink, Toad seemed to perk up, head raised, ears straight, and I thought I must be good at this bull stuff. The bull walked to me and I stepped back to let him pass. He gave no thought to me at all as he made his way to the truck. I turned to watch, proud of my man skills, which was when I saw why Toad had loped past me with no huff or puff. The white haired man, Jack Daws, an old hand at bulls, knew the best way to coax one where you want him to go was to use a girl. There, by the truck, was a cow in full heat, the smell of sex strong to Toad in the warm ranch air. He felt the pull of it and had to check it out. The rope hung still in my hands as the Toad made his way to Daws and his new home. I learned a thing or two that day. Sex beats the rope. Hands down.
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Quote of the day: There was Kato, his dear hands folded on his chest, his fingers twitching almost imperceptibly in his sleep, like a dog dreaming of Schubert. Patchett - Bel Canto.Chosen because of the wonderful simile. Just gorgeous.
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