Go West Young Man pt. 4

During my time on the ranch, I was exposed to certain aspects of farm life. The ranch kept some livestock, which were used as part of the food consumed by everyone who lived on the property. There were times of butchering during the year. When this happened, everyone on the ranch pitched in to help with the event. Most of what we processed were pigs and chickens. Every so often, a local rancher would donate an animal here or there.

On one of the Saturdays, I walked across the grounds and saw a lamb tied to one of the trees. Right away, I fell in love with it. It would walk to the left and the right, its head upright, eyes constantly searching, as if looking for the rest of the flock. Every so often, it would bleat, 'Baa, baa' as if calling out and waiting for a response that was never returned.

I spent the morning with the animal, talking to it and petting it. Who knew, maybe it could be my pet friend? At one point, I ran into the Center, the building where everything was happening. I couldn't wait to tell everyone about my new pet. 'Are you talking about that sheep tied to the tree out there?' I was asked. 'Yeah,' I responded. 'That's not a pet. We are going to butcher it this afternoon' was the blunt response I received. I froze, a feeling of desperation overwhelming me. 'No, not my pet lamb,' I thought to myself. It was a moment of dilemma in my young life. I ran back outside to the lamb. Hugging it, I ran my fingers through its coarse coat of wool. There was a feeling in my gut. ‘I don’t want you to die,’ I said to my friend. I could feel its heartbeat racing between its bleats as I leaned against it. The feeling that I had was not like that of when we hunted. You see, I had been exposed to hunting and understood it to the best of my limited comprehension. This was different. This feeling that I had was like that of when my buddy Anthony had passed away. It is a feeling that would visit me often in the years to come. Helplessness.

Before long, a group of people gathered where we were. Suddenly, an older man walked through the crowd. Ray and his wife, Marlene, lived on the ranch. Ray was an old cowboy, having spent his life between Colorado and Arizona, riding horses and training them to compete in professional reining competitions. As he approached, I saw the knife that was grasped in his right hand. With a reflex from years of being well-tuned, he slid the blade across the sheep’s neck. Life gushed from the animal. Eventually, it collapsed. It is the simple reality when a person lives on a farm and the animals are raised to be eaten.

I did not understand it, though. I hated Ray. With clenched fists and tears streaming down my face, I darted out of the crowd back towards home. That was it. I was getting my Daisy BB gun and was going to get Ray. ‘What in the world are you doing?’ my mother demanded as she grabbed hold of my BB gun. Through tears and anger, I told her. Yanking the BB gun out of my hands, she sent me to my room to take a nap.

I woke up with a hungover feeling. In a daze, I got up and slid on shoes. I had to know what happened to my lamb. I walked outside and went to where the sheep had been. Everything was gone. In the dirt were a couple of dried patches of blood, that was it. Like that, my friend was gone, but the loss was tattooed onto my eyes, heart, and mind.

Whenever a life is gone, you are changed, whether it's an animal or a person. The repercussions of the void shake the spirit. Maybe that is part of why indigenous persons were and still are so reverent in those moments. I never forgave Ray for what he did.