Bull

I grew up on a farm in Ohio. Dad raised cattle. Mom raised kids.

Dad didn’t allow me and my siblings to spend any time with the animals until we were old enough. His theory was that we would grow attached to one of them, and the next day they could be gone. Mom said they would be sent to another farm once they graduated from ours. She told us not to pry. Just be grateful you have a hardworking father who provides for his family, she said.

I was woken up the morning after my 13th birthday. I usually got up at 630. When my eyes opened, I turned to look at my alarm clock: 430. I brought my eyes back to the ceiling, and there was my Dad’s big block head staring down at me.

“Thirteen,” he said, smiling, a brown stain on the gums where he kept his tobacco. “Big day today.” His breath always had a sweet mint smell. He scratched his beard. “Throw on your work clothes and meet me outside in 15.”

***

It was chilly. I could see my breath.

“Well son,” Dad said, “my Dad took me for my first day of work when I was thirteen, so here we are.”

“What are we gonna do?” I asked.

“You’re gonna brand your first bull today kiddo.”

“Brand?”

Dad smiled. He’d put in his first dip of the day.

“Don’t wanna ruin the surprise,” he said. “Hop in the truck.”

***

We got out of the truck and walked toward the fence.

“I’ve already done the heavy lifting here,” Dad said, opening the fence door.

One of the bulls lay in the middle of the enclosure, its hands and feet bound with rope.

“What did you do to it?” I asked, running toward it and trying to untie one of the ropes.

“Son, no,” Dad said forcefully. “This is part of what we have to do.”

“Why?”

“Because it can’t move while we brand it.”

“Can you at least tell me what branding is?” I asked as I turned toward him.

He took his hand out from behind his back to reveal a big metal stick with a hot iron on the end.

“What are you going to do with that?”

“We put this onto the bull to mark him so we can keep track.”

“But doesn’t that hurt him?”

“Yes, but it’s only for a few seconds.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I’m not doing it.”

My Dad sighed. “Son,” he said. “This is what we do in our family. This is the tradition. You don’t want to be known as the one who broke tradition.”

“I don’t care about tradition,” I said. “You can’t make me do it.”

“You’re right,” Dad said, “But I can make us do it.”

He grabbed my arm with his free hand and hauled me up, putting the handle of the brand in my hand.

“Dad, no!” I screamed. He positioned both of us such that we were both holding the brand so that I couldn’t run away.

“You’re 13 now,” he said. “You have to learn. One day you’ll be running this farm for your family.”

I began to cry as the brand descended on the bull. I tried to hold it back as long as I could, but Dad overpowered me. I remember first the sticky sensation of the hot iron hitting the skin. Then the bull’s groan. Then the smell. The bull squirmed and tried to roll. After a few seconds, we took the iron off.

It was a cross like we see at church.