Fitting Cows
We’re in the barn. I’m oiling the clippers and C is catching Peaches, his best show cow. Today, while he’s fitting his Hereford for the first time, I’ve decided to have the talk with him. Or at least, a new version of it.
C is big, but not finished growing. At eighteen, he’s six feet three, weighs 205 pounds, and has sandy brown hair that falls in perfect ringlet curls now that he’s let it grow in the mullet-fashion that all the Ag kids wear. He leads Peaches into the trim chute and ties the rope up high like I taught him. I hand him the clippers.
Start at her butt.
Peaches stomps a bit. She’s gentle, but opinionated.
Easy girl. Just talk to her. Rub her. She likes the attention. Find the round part and go up and then down. You want her butt to look wider. —Is W coming to the show at the State Fair?
C nods, his face obscured behind the twist of his cow’s tail.

You like him, don’t you?
I start to angle around to see him better, but C jumps back as Peaches angrily swishes her tail.
It’s okay, there’s a horsefly on her. Use that fly spray. From the hock, clip down evenly on the outside. —Are you sure W is…sure he likes you in that way?
Yes, Mom.
I hear the hint of exasperation in C’s voice, but he resumes clipping, the buzz of the clippers and the fan aimed at the trim chute making us both have to raise our voices.
What makes you think so?
Mom, I just know, okay?
The problem is, C is horrible at reading social cues.
That looks good on her hind. You step back and look. On the front of the leg, you want an angle from the pastern to the flank. Not too straight. —Do his parents know about him?
Mom, I dunno. How would I know?
I repress the urge to roll my eyes at the blithe contradictions of an eighteen-year-old boy.

Do the other hind just like this one. —You know, you can tell W he can always come talk to Dad and me if he doesn’t have anyone. He’s from Clarendon?
I see C’s cowboy hat bob once from under Peaches’ back flank.
What is that, like a 2A school? He probably feels so alone. —Let’s pull her out of the chute for a minute; I want you to watch her top line while I lead her around. See the high points?
C doesn’t answer, but places his big hand over Peaches’ hip bones.
Good eye. Clip those areas down tighter. You don’t want them looking different. —Have you told anyone at school? Or in Ag?
I told Mr. O.
Really? When?
When we were setting up for County Fair a month ago. He asked me why I didn’t have a girlfriend.
I gulp.
So you just said because you were gay? I didn’t know that. Do you trust him?
C shrugs. I nearly don’t notice that he’s taking too much hair off as he works toward Peaches’ shoulder.
Careful at the loin. You don’t want to clip it so tight or she’ll look weak. —How’d he respond?
He stared at me bug-eyed, then told me to go dump the shavings in the steer barn.
Did he mean…
I swallow the bile that rises in my throat.

I mean, are you okay with that?
C stands but doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t answer.
Do her head next. Grab those little flat clippers. Go down against the grain. Nice and tight. Smooth, even strokes. Leave a little hair on the poll. You want a clean point. —I’m glad you have someone other than us you can talk to, but I… I guess I’m a little paranoid.
Ya think?
Peaches tosses her head, and I watch as C moves the clippers back, scratching her thick floppy brisket. Soon, she’s angling her head toward him, broad lines of slobber falling from both sides of her mouth.
Jesus it’s hot today. I shift so I’m more in line with the fan that’s blowing on Peaches. Clip her front legs next. Slope it at a forty-five-degree angle down to her dewclaw. —How old is W?
Seventeen.
I thought you said he was a junior. —Grab the blocking blade again for this. —Are you sure he’s seventeen?
Yes, Mom.
C has this distinct way of drawling out his “yes” when he’s annoyed. I’ve tried to tell him how easy it is for sex, consensual sex, to be charged as rape. One angry redneck dad is all it would take.
Watch it! You’re getting too straight on that leg. —Look C, I know you’re legal, but if he’s not seventeen, you can be prosecuted. From what you’ve said about his parents, they might. And who knows if he’s on Prep, probably not. I flick at a fly. —I think the belly, and then you’re done. Start with the navel.
I hand C a pad to kneel on, and he folds his big frame down low to reach under his heifer. I watch the white hairs from Peaches’ underbelly mix with the red hairs already on the ground and think about Matthew Shepard, the gay University of Wyoming student who was bludgeoned so badly that the cyclist who spotted him thought he was a scarecrow. It happened twenty-five years ago, but it doesn’t feel like much has changed where we live. Especially not in the Ag community. I’m glad C is confident, but I wish we could raise him somewhere else, in a region where I wouldn’t worry about his safety. “Spit in one hand and wish in the other,” my dad used to say, “and see which fills faster.” I hold my hands up to the fan, letting it dry the sweat off my palms.

C, even if you trust him, you don’t know his parents! You know how people are around here! I don’t want you ending up left for dead tied to a fence post.
I hear C mutter, Worry-wart.
Curve toward her udder. Catch all those long teat hairs. Careful. Don’t nick her ud—
Get back!
Get Back!
C, are you… you okay?
Did she get you?
I spot a few drops of blood on the floor of the chute. I rush to C, who’s sitting V-style, his long legs folded in front of him, his head hanging over his hands. I take his hat off, lift his head, separate his hands, look for a wound. He gazes back at me, his blue eyes big.
I’m fine, Mom.
Oh C! You’ve got to be careful. You got lucky this time, but it’s too easy to get hurt.
*
Cover photo by Spenser Sembrat on Unsplash