The Sort
On Mondays we sort cattle.
They are competitive and pushy beasts. Older, large animals use their mass like a wrecking ball, gathering momentum towards the feed trough before colliding with and tumbling younger animals out of the way, lest the runt take one bite too many. It’s an opportunity we prefer to eliminate in the interest of herd relations.
So we’re diligent about the sort. The largest steers in each pen are shifted into the next on a weekly basis, and the regularity of the routine ensures uniformity throughout the barns.
Calves are relatively easy to relocate: we place a rope around the youngsters’ necks and lead them to their destination. No real skill is required, just a patient attitude and an aptitude for repetition.
It’s the larger animals that I like sorting. Dad and I work together, conversing briefly before we start, and then not at all while the task is in motion.
Picking a specific animal out of a mob, then convincing the chosen steer to walk through a narrow gate and into a new location is a misunderstood form of art. To a person, every amateur who has visited us associates large animals with a tough-guy demeanor, exaggerated motions, and loud verbalizations. People perceive a big, daunting task and get themselves cranked up for a big, showy performance of running and jumping and yelling, very closely mimicking pent-up second graders converging on the playground at recess. Even our most urbane guests, those who cannot tell a Holstein from a horsefly, register an unfamiliar surge of testosterone cranking through their veins at the thought of walking the pens: they’re ready to do something tough.
Like nearly everything else in life, the most obvious approach is the least effective.
We enter the pens like dye diffusing through water; the animals barely register our presence. Sometimes Dad works the gate, and sometimes I do, but whatever the orientation, our methods are the same. The animal is selected from the mob with a finger point and a description – “There, the black and white one.” (They’re all black and white.)
Body language and positioning become immediately relevant when the target is identified: head up, arms low, slow heartbeat, fast, yet never urgent motions are the name of the game. The steer rarely walks in alone; the person on the gate faces a wall of flesh moving in his direction. Our objective is to make nine of the animals want to turn one direction, and the tenth want to break away and walk through the gate.
It is the slightest of movements that make such an intricate dance successful. Often one extended arm, or a step to the left, or a shift of weight from one leg to another is all it takes. We read their noses, eyes, and ears to see what they’re thinking, adjusting as the mass stomps in from thirty feet, twenty feet, ten feet, impossibly close, and then suddenly the target slips past and his mates turn back. I love it.
Rowdy farmers create chaos among the herd. Yelling and flailing do indeed generate a response: The cattle scatter backwards, moving far away from the person who is supposed to be working them. It is impossible to get results if the objective stays out of reach. Yet, as long as it looks like they’re doing something, people will continue the unhealthy behavior.
I think the whole of society needs to work more cattle. We live in a world of extraordinary reactions to every occurrence, from a person jaywalking who gets a loud horn and the finger to political hoopla that manipulates the masses to achieve results for a few. Such reactions are gutting humanity while it’s still alive. The reality of it all saddens me, because I’m rather fond of humanity.
The subtlest work is the most effective. Huge tasks can be accomplished with nothing but a well planned twitch. What do we want to be for our collective future? Do we want to be thinkers, those who, when faced with a looming wall of flesh, can pluck out the problem with a slight adjustment? Or do we just scream and yell and react like Yosemite Sam, scattering the problem backwards so it can no longer be solved intelligently?
There will always be the reactors in society. That’s an inevitable truth, and it’s fine as long as their temperament and subsequent disasters remain isolated to their immediate vicinity. Maybe they can start communities where tantrums are a twice-daily ritual and gridlocked political mire rules the day. I can suggest a few potential locations for them, but nobody asks.
I hope that querulous way of life does not creep in and affect my life, though. I want to raise my kids so they know how to sort cattle. I want the effects of that wisdom to infiltrate the rest of their lives, no matter what they choose to do. And I suspect that I’m not alone in that desire.
I think this area is filled to the brim with folks who prefer the subtle approach to living. We’ll study and watch and wait while the world freaks out, then, at the perfect moment, we’ll shift our weight and let the troublemakers slide on by like a chosen steer.
On Mondays we sort cattle. Most of them head for the butcher.