Horses in Love, continued
...
As we chuckled over Tomorrow's clumsy grapplings,
I thought of another yearling zebra dun, and a grey draft horse.
It had been a March morning, two years past, at the Cattleman's'
Livestock Auction in Belen, New Mexico. I held the power of life
or death over both of those horses.
I was making my way along the stockyard
catwalk, some dozen feet above the maze of rusted pipe fencing
where livestock await the Saturday sales. As I moved, I watched
my feet, hanging onto the welded pipe railings of the catwalk.
As usual, I worried that the split, creaking planks underneath
might give way.
A stockyard catwalk. Orphan foals trot
anxiously in the foreground. Photo courtesy Carolyn Bertin.
To the north bleated sheep and goats by
the dozens. To the northeast shuffled cattle by the hundreds.
Directly below lay a handful of dozing newborn dairy calves caked
in old manure mixed with new. South were horses, mules and donkeys.
Some of these lounged dispiritedly. Others reared and pranced.
Some whinnied for missing herd mates and owners.
To the southwest, by the loading chutes
of the horse and mule area, waited the double decker stock semis.
Each Saturday afternoon they depart for the slaughter houses
of Ft. Worth.
View from the catwalk at the Cattlemen's
Livestock Auction. Photo courtesy Carolyn Bertin.
I leaned across the welded pipe rail, over
a pen of fidgeting mustangs. I looked for crooked backs, hipbones
out of kilter, a lopsided gait, anything that might rule out
an otherwise good prospect. I wasn't there as an animal rights
activist saving as many crowbait horses as I could afford to
feed. I was in this to make money, or so I told myself. If I
also had fun and felt good, fine.
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