The Longhorn

A story being drafted live. Come back every so often to see how it’s progressing.

Phil watched Abernathy standing over the bull from his car. It was that magic hour, and despite being in the parking lot next to the stadium, the air had a fairytale quality to it. Jesus light, his mother called it. The rays were visible as they streamed from the openings in the clouds through the perpetually dusty Texas air. Phil settled into the heat in his car and focused on his breathing; deep in through the nose, slowly through the mouth. He shut his eyes, his eyelids red from within, and listened to his own breathing. It had taken him nearly six months of meeting with Dr. Landsbery before he understood the concept of meditative breathing. She had never explained it, had just instructed him to do it. For those first few months he didn’t think it did anything. It felt more annoying than anything else. His breathing felt more labored, he couldn’t figure out when to stop breathing in and to start breathing out. He didn’t know if he should empty his lungs completely, or pause before beginning to breathe in again. Breathing was supposed to be automatic. But three months ago, six months into his sessions with Dr. Landsbery, it dawned on him. His anger was automatic, like his normal breathing. He had no or very little control over it. It just happened. Focusing on the automatic allowed him to regain some control. It made sense why asthmatics also practiced this same breathing technique. When something automatic gets out of control, it was up to you to control it. You had to focus on it. Make it do what you wanted, not what it wanted. Getting angry wasn’t Phil’s problem, it was his unwillingness to control it.

As he focused on his breathing now, the hot air traveling in and out of his lungs, he focused on his anger, controlled its course, in and out, in and out. Phil opened his eyes and took in the scene. Two cars on the left were wrecked, their doors smashed in and glass on the ground around them. In front of them stood Abernathy with his 30–06 over his shoulder grinning like an idiot. He didn’t get that no one else was grinning. He didn’t get that this wasn’t a kill to brag about. But Abernathy didn’t get a lot of things. Behind him lay Bo, the longhorn bull. Phil had to close his eyes again and concentrate on his breathing, on his anger. To the right of the bull, were the police cars and Ambulance. Everyone sort of milled about, no one was quite sure what do. But they all occasionally looked over at Phil and that’s when he realized they were waiting for him.

As Phil approached the bull, Abernathy slung the rifle over his shoulder and announced proudly, “Got ’em for you, Phil. John had tranq him three times before he slowed enough for me put him down.” Phil paused and closed his eyes, thankful that he was still wearing his sunglasses.

The sheriff cleared his throat and called over, “Abernathy, come on over here. We got to get your statement.” Phil didn’t have to look over to know that that was for him more than anything else. He knelt down beside the bull and put his hand on his snout. It was still wet. He saw the three tranq darts in the rear leg and winced. He couldn’t see where Abernathy’s bullet had gone in; must have been on the other side. Straight into the heart judging by the amount of blood on the ground. Bo couldn’t have taken more than a few steps after the shot. Three tranqs would have certainly slowed him down, but Phil wondered if it was enough to ease his pain.

A breeze picked up as the sun made it’s way behind the stadium, sending a slight chill across Phil’s arms. He ran his fingers along the ringed surface of Bo’s horn. There was no blood on it. That was relief. He had heard that a cheerleader had been cornered the lower causeway of the stadium just after Bo had bucked free from his handler. The sheriff walked up to the two and greeted him, “Evening, Phil.”

Phil nodded. “The girl okay?”

“Yeah, she’s fine. Had a megaphone, hit the siren button in her fright, must have scared him off.”

Phil nodded slightly and looked straight ahead, noticing the crowd for the first time. A few deputies and barricades kept them at bay. He didn’t remember them driving in. Perhaps they hadn’t made it out to the parking lot yet.

“Tow truck’s gonna be here in a few minutes. Perhaps you want to…”

Looked over to the two damaged cars knowing the truck wasn’t for them. “Nah, I’m going to stay. Help out if I can.”

The sheriff nodded and returned his Stetson to the top of his head. “Look, do what you need to do today. You can come by the station tomorrow. Just routine questions, some paperwork to fill out and sign, you being the main caretaker and all.”

“Will do.” He gave the sheriff a slight nod and wave and then looked down at the bull’s face. His eyes were wet, still seemed alive. Phil knew it was a side effect of the tranqs, Bo’s eyes were always wet during the games. But he couldn’t shake the feeling they were questioning him, asking him why he had done it. He felt something welling up inside, threatening to overwhelm him. It wasn’t anger, but his breathing grew shallow. Phil shut his eyes, but Bo’s eyes were still there, wet and sad. He tried to control his breathing, in through his nose, out through his mouth. But with each inhalation he was hit with the stench of blood and bull.

The same stench had overwhelmed him his first day in the stable. It was suffocating and the late afternoon heat radiating up from the ground all around the stable didn’t help. The waning sunlight reflected off the dust in the air and all Phil could think about was tiny particles of shit getting in his lungs. That was the day Phil met Abernathy, a scrawny kid, like Phil, but unlike him had bought into the whole cowboy getup; boots, dungarees, belt buckle. He looked almost cartoonish to Phil, and his twitchy energy put Phil on edge.

“So you gonna be taking care of Bo, huh?” Abernathy said with a note of incredulity.

Phil didn’t say anything, just peered around him at the stable. All of the pens appeared empty. Rusty relics of ranching hung on the walls and hay coated the floor.

“I suppose you wanna see him.”

Phil shrugged and followed Abernathy down the length of the stable to the last pen on the left. As they approached, the stench of shit grew stronger and the buzz of flies steadily grew louder. By the time they got to the pen the smell had gotten so bad that Phil lifted his shirt up over his nose and tried to breathe only out of his mouth. There in the corner of the pen stood the 2000 lb beast that he had heretofore only seen on the football field. On the field, Bo looked majestic, his horns and coat gleaming in the sun. He stood like a regal king, calm, yet imposing. But not today. Here in his pen, standing in his among piles of his own shit, he looked tired, defeated almost. His coat had no shine, and his horns looked pock-marked, dull, and smudged with dirt. A sudden clang of metal on metal made Phil jump. Abernathy banged a metal pole against the gate a few more times.

“Come on you stupid cow! Turn around! Meet your new friend!”

Phil stared at the beast, tense, waiting to see its reaction. But he barely moved. After a couple more bangs from Abernathy, Bo finally grunted and turned head toward them both. His eyes were wet and mucous dripped from his nostrils. Phil compulsively wiped his own nose.

“Is he sick?”

“Huh?”

Phil pointed at Bo. “Is he sick?”

“Oh, no. That’s just from the tranqs. Makes him get all mucousy and shit.”

“He don’t look like that at the games though,” Phil said.

“We give him some of that allergy medicine on Saturday’s, dries him out. So don’t forget to do that, otherwise the AD’s gonna be pissed. Come on, I’ll show you the note Caleb left.”

Bo had returned to staring at the wall, his tail occasionally and uselessly swatting the flies away. Phil lingered for a moment, he thought he felt not unlike the bull, trapped. Still, he figured he did what he was supposed to do for a couple months, by that time they’d hire a real caretaker.

In the office, about 50 yards away from the stable, Abernathy handed him a handwritten note. Written at the top was “Daily Duties” and on the back “Saturday Duties.” Phil read what he was supposed to do every morning and evening for the semester. Abernathy leaned back in the chair behind the desk eyeing him. As far as Phil could tell, none of the duties listed had been performed. He looked up at Abernathy, who was still keeping his eye on Phil. “What do you do here?”

“Watch you mostly.” He got up from the chair and walked over to the window that overlooked the small field and stable where Bo was kept. “But on Saturdays, I make sure he don’t get up to no good. Not likely though, with the way we drug him. If it wasn’t for the constipators we give him on Saturday, that cow would just stand around shitting himself all afternoon.”

“Who drugs him?”

“Caleb did. Since he left, Dr. Everett been doing it. He’ll be by tomorrow to drop off the weeks tranqs and show you how to do it.”

“Me?” asked Phil. He didn’t want to shovel shit, but he knew he could do it. Inject a Texas longhorn bull?

“Yup. You think Everett gonna come down here everyday and do it himself? Ain’t nothing to it. That ol’ cow barely ever moves anyhow. Everything be portioned out, you just gotta stick him.”

Phil turned to the window and stood next to Abernathy. They both peered at the stable. Behind it rose the stadium, where in two days 77,000 fans would go beserk when Bo sauntered into the stadium. If you could call a drug addled stroll a saunter, thought Phil.

“Guess you better get to it, partner. Light ain’t gonna last forever.”

Phil looked at the duty list. He had two days to get Bo ready for the game. Truthfully, there wasn’t much to do, it was just all things Phil had never pictured himself doing.

“Everything’s there in the stable. Go on now. I’ll be here if he gives you trouble.”

Phil nodded but didn’t like the way Abernathy grinned at him. He couldn’t tell if he was mocking him or the Bo. Mostly likely both. Phil folded up the duty list, put it in his back pocket and headed out to the stable. The stench hit him again like a wall. He reminded himself to bring a bandana tomorrow morning. He thought he’d leave the washing and grooming until tomorrow, just after Bo was drugged. He dragged the large trash bin and shovel into the gateway of Bo’s pen. With his shirt over his nose, and an eye on Bo, Phil shoveled the shit into the bin. He didn’t know what was worse, the smell that was now making his eyes wet, or the flies buzzing incessantly around his eyes and ears. But Bo didn’t stir other than the occasional swish of his tail, and Phil soon forgot he was there. He tried to think of something else to get his mind off the shit and flies, but it was impossible. He couldn’t even try Dr. Landsbery’s breathing techniques, he would have surely fainted. And so he shoveled, cursing steadily in his head, the occasional one sneaking out through his pursed lips.

After dragging the near full bin to a section of the dirt drive, where, according to the duty list, a local farmer would pick it up for use on his farm, Phil, filled up the water trough, and baled about 10 forks of hay into the pen. He locked up the gate, and paused a moment. If Bo wasn’t standing up, he’d think he was dead. His breathing was slow, almost imperceptible except for a deep, labored breath every now and then. The flies seemed to have dissipated, and the smell wasn’t quite as revolting, though it was still quite potent. Maybe it’d be better after he washed the bull tomorrow morning. He could only hope.

Phil returned to the office to drop off the stable keys and found that Abernathy had gone. He opened the ledger on the desk and wrote in his hours. Abernathy was supposed to sign him out. He hesitated a moment, unsure what to do, then decided to leave it until tomorrow. He glanced around the sparse office and with sigh left, locking the door behind him. The sun had just disappeared behind the stadium casting a long shadow across the parking lot all the way to the stable. As Phil walked to his car, he could still feel the heat radiating off the blacktop. It would keep the city warm until past midnight.

At home, Phil scrubbed off the afternoon’s dirt and let the warm shower water wash over him. His shoulders still felt tense and his chest continued to tighten. He turned around and tilted his head back under the water and breathed in deeply through his nose, then out through his mouth. Slowly his chest loosened, and the thump of heart against it weakened. He felt the blood flow unrestricted to his fingertips; they tingled slightly. He continued to breath and his shoulders dropped and finally the day dropped from his mind.

The next morning at the stable was a test in tolerance for Phil. Abernathy was nowhere to be seen, but had apparently signed off on his hours before Phil’s arrival. In the stable, Phil met Dr. Everett, a tall man, dressed casually in chinos and a short sleeve plaid shirt. He looked to be in his late 40s, a man who had seen some things, but had plenty of vigor remaining in his bones. He seemed gentle and strong at the same time, fatherly, a man who you would want beside you while taking your last breaths, who would tell you that everything was going to be okay and, most importantly, you would believe him. Phil could tell all of this by the time they said their farewells later that morning. Dr. Everett left him feeling a restoration of faith in humanity, but his absence, also left the stable cold. His presence was like that of the hearth fires in the deep cold of the winters Phil had left behind in Michigan. It was the proximity that kept you warm, but also reminded you of the peril that lingered just beyond its reach. And as it died down for evening, forcing you take refuge under your blankets, the cold crept even closer, seeped into the cracks of space you left between your skin and the air. Phil thought it strange that he should feel as such about a man he had met once. And as he stood now, in Bo’s pen, scrub brush in hand, a pale of soapy water, the heat of a Texas morning was no comfort. It was just him and a drugged bull, weeping incessantly from eyes and nose.

The suds dripped down Phil’s arm towards his armpit as he raised the scrub brush to Bo’s back. He pulled it down with both hands, leaning into the bull a little. Bo’s brown hair glistened, and Phil worked his way around the bull, scrubbing with the grain of the hair. Bo didn’t move, nor utter a sounds, just continued to breath slow and heavy, with the occasional sigh. Phil began to find the scrubbing meditative. It helped that Bo was drugged, it didn’t take long for him to forget that he was washing a 1000-pound bull. It wasn’t until he stepped around to Bo’s face that he realized again exactly what he was doing; washing a 1000-pound bull. Phil stood for a moment and looked into Bo’s eye. He couldn’t tell if Bo was looking at him, but his eye was wet, as it always was. Phil picked up the smaller brush from the bucket and scrubbed Bo’s jawline. He felt the bull move his head slightly towards him, putting more pressure on the brush in Phil’s hand. Phil pulled away a fraction and Bo’s head followed, trying to maintain the pressure. Phil took a deep breath and obliged. He leaned into the bull and started to massage the brush back and forth along his jaw, then moved under to his chin, and then slowly around to the other side of Bo’s jaw. Bo’s head followed Phil’s movements, being sure to keep the bristles close. Phil had not noticed right away, but now saw his own left hand resting on Bo’s nose. He raised the brush to Bo’s snout and brushed gently up to his forehead and back down. He then scrubbed behind Bo’s ears while cradling the massive head in his arm. He started to say, “Atta’ boy” when he looked up and saw Abernathy standing at the gate of the pen.

“See you’ve made a friend.” Abernathy was leaning up against the post holding the hose in his hand. “He looks good and shiny. Not bad. Not bad at all.” Abernathy nodded at Bo and said, “Watch out now.” Phil stepped back and Abernathy let go of the kink in the hose he had been keeping in his other hand. Water flowed smoothly out of the hose, but Abernathy put his thumb over the opening, hardening the stream into a jet of water. The thud of the water against the side of the bull sounded hollow, his hair spreading apart where the water struck his side. Bo still didn’t move, not until Abernathy got to his head. He kept the hard jet stream of water going against the bull’s head, across his jaw and over his snout. Bo moo’d and bent his head away from the stream, which only made Abernathy chuckle and bend down to get a better angle. Phil stood, unsure of what to do.

“Abernathy!”

Abernathy didn’t respond.

“Abernathy!” He still didn’t respond, so Phil walked over to the hose, grabbed and bent it to a kink, slowing the flow of water to a trickle.

Confused, Abernathy looked at the hose and followed it up to where Phil was standing, near the entrance to the pen. “What you doing?”

“Nothing. I’ll finish up. Won’t take me a minute.”

Abernathy eyed, Phil, stood up straight and walked over to him. “Don’t forget to log your hours,” said Abernathy and handed Phil the hose. Phil nodded and took the nozzle from Abernathy and waited for him to leave. He unkinked the hose and walked over to Bo, who had resumed his normal silent pose. He let the gentle flow of water wash over the bull’s back, and slowly brushed the suds down. He walked around Bo, keeping the water on his back, letting the soap and dirt wash down and away. He tipped the hose behind Bo’s ears and then guided the water around his eyes and down his snout. Phil moved downward, standing now directly in front of Bo, and pointed the hose up under this chin and scratch the loose skin. Bo tilted his head up slightly and Phil looked at his horns. They were 8-feet across at least and pointed upwards at their ends. They glistened now from Abernathy’s spray, but Phil remembered them being dull before. He noted to himself to look up how to polish bull horns.