A moment in hell
They're coming around the bales and making their way toward me. Slowly. Sharp points glint in the barn lights. They're covered in fleece. Diva's? Oh my god, my god. I'm so frightened I can't move....all of us boys are scared stiff. Then at once, moving as one, we all bolted away, in the other direction, any direction to be free. The door is closed. When? How? Who? Doesn't matter, find a pathway out. Become invisible.
They have me. I feel their grip on my neck. Pulling me toward them. Oh my god, my god. I spit, and spit again. My bladder lets loose. I can't stop it. I scream, stamp, dance, cush down and protect my legs. Protect them at all costs. They are my only means of escape.
But they don't stop. They just continue. I feel a saber-sharp bite in my side. And then they come at me again and again. And all the kicking and screaming, stamping and spitting aren't accomplishing anything. Then finally it's over. I lay there, gasping for breath. I stand. Test my legs. I've managed to protect them. They're strong.
Yes, they're still strong. No bleeding. No pain. I can't speak for the spitface aftermath I find myself afflicted with. But something else is different. My feet feel different. I look up. They're there. Mom reaches out and scratches my favorite spot behind my ears, and offers me a treat. "Poor baby. I wish you didn't hate your feet touched so much. But you need your nails trimmed once in a while, and your monthly shot. Are you okay now? Poor baby."
I don't care for the treat - I still have spitface. But I succumb to mom's cooing and gentle scratching behind my ears. I have to dig deep to find my dignity. I do. Give a stomp. One last kick in the air; and I move to the hay bin. Herd health is complete once again.
Gathering my pride,