Cruel entertainment

I had to charge. I had no other way out. I didn’t ask for this, and it wasn’t what I had envisioned my life to be when I was a young calf. I didn’t want to do it, I thought if I stayed still and ignored the humans around me —the whistling, the hollering, the cheering— it would all go away and I would be left alone to get back to green pastures to feed on. But I knew better. How many times had my mates been taken to never come back? Too many for me to count. I knew this was the end of my journey, much to my dismay and impotence.

They would badger, provoke, and trigger me into charging. They’d move their damn muleta around, dressed as if they were performing some great show. I’d start by feeling quite strong, capable of winning this, I had heard of others who had inflicted pain to that accursed human who taunted them to react, to attack. Some of my compadres had gotten a pretty good hold on these humans, bringing death to their doors as they had done to so many of us. However, that would make matters worse; not only would the victor among us meet his lethal destiny, but his whole family and lineage would receive the same fate. The hypocrisy. Our families and us would pay for defending ourselves. I had decided that even if I could find the opportunity to attack and come out alive from this torture, I wouldn’t take it. I didn’t want my whole family to pay for my surviving a few more hours. It just wasn’t worth it. What had we ever done to deserve this cruelty? Was it because we were strong? Had been born with horns?

I heard rumors, passed on from our ancestors, that this bullfighting practice had been passed on from generation to generation since the Middle Ages. At one point it was considered a symbol of strength and manhood amongst the royalty and nobility to win against one of us bulls. By doing so, they could impress ladies they were trying to win over, or gain the respect of others. As if there weren’t other ways of achieving this.

I grow tired with each breath. They keep stabbing me with different objects, from their horses they push a barb every so often, sometimes pushing it in and moving it around so it will dig deeper and hurt even more. It’s excruciatingly painful. They will then drive skewers into our bodies, piercing the skin, possibly even muscle, stinging in such a way that for a few seconds, all one can see is absolute blackness. Concentration is impossible. We lose focus and forget for a moment that we are fighting for our lives.

When they come around on their horses to jab us once again with those long, horrible barbs, the horses try to fight to flee, but their riders overpower them. Through their breath, they apologize profusely, embarrassed to be in that line of work.

“No worries,” I reply gasping, “just like us, you had no choice in the matter.”

I have seen some of those majestic creatures try to shake off their rider, such is their shame.

I have heard of times when other fighting bulls, in their desperate attempt to get to the human inflicting the injury, would charge and mortally wound the innocent equine. I can’t blame them. In this state of distress, sometimes all one can see is red.

With all those wounds, and the blood running down my back and my legs, reaching my hoofs, resting dramatically on the sand of the arena —the red a stark contrast to the brown surface— I start feeling panic and hopelessness. Although I am well aware of my fate, I still feel that my instinct is to fight and survive. I have more to live for. I want to have more calves, and tell them that there’s more good in the world, that not all bulls all over the planet are treated this way (or so I hope). How is this country so backward? How can they take such pleasure in this horror show? As I feel the life slowly draining out of me, I hear the cheering and hollering of the crowd. How is there no one out there ready to stop this madness?

I can only hope that when the final blow comes, it is quick. I have heard of instances when the murderer misses the mark by inches and the bull falls down, not dead, but suffering, half-paralyzed, lying in great agony, until someone finally puts him out of his misery. Those last minutes, though, are the worst of his life.

I look at him, that who will be the final face I’ll ever see, a killer’s face —what else can you call him?— wearing his ridiculous montera hat, and that tight costume with sequins and ornaments all over, as if he were some valiant knight saving the world from a great evil. Sweat covers my body, mixing with the blood that keeps pouring from the multiple wounds they have inflicted upon me. Cowards! How I wish we could one day take revenge on the lot of them. My brothers and I. Perhaps all other species around the world that have been similarly abused and tortured around the globe. Oh, I can imagine the sweetness of vengeance. Can almost feel it.

This is it… he’s making the move with his muleta, he’s going for the final kill. Here I go, hoping that one day, not too far down the line from my pointless demise, this horrible practice will end.

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If you want to learn more and help stop the cruel practice of bullfighting, check out the Humane Society International in their efforts to stop this activity that causes these beautiful animals such horrific pain:

https://www.hsi.org/news-media/bullfighting_how_help/

Animal cruelty should not be entertainment: https://www.hsi.org/issues/cruelty-entertainment/

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