The Old Broke Rancher Exercises Dominion Over the Cattle

IT SAYS IN THE GOOD BOOK that God gave us dominion over the animals. This may have come as a surprise to Adam.

"Uh," he might have said to the Big Guy, "you mean that I have, uh, dominion over the lion over there? The cheetah? The, uh, gulp, grizzly bear? I'm that critter's boss?"

Of course, once Adam and Eve ruined everything and were expelled from the Garden, well, things got even worse. They had to ranch, and that meant trying to exercise their laughably tenuous "dominion" over cattle, one of the most fiendishly obstinate, colossally stupid animals that He, in His infinite wisdom, ever created. Only humans can compete.

Did He create the one to blight the other?

Good thing they taste so good, something that we might never have found out if we had stayed in our state of grace over there in Eden.

Because if they didn't, and they tasted as disgusting as, say, an Impossible Burger patty, then we as a species would surely have destroyed them long ago.

Maybe cows aren't dumb. Maybe they're extraordinarily crafty at achieving their true goal: to make ranchers miserable. They might calve in the creek, or take down the fence just because they know you'll have to mend it. These poop-producing Pac-Mans from Hell seem to take special joy in destroying fence lines; two bulls, skirmishing for fun, will stage their battle on either side of the fence. I've repaired over a quarter mile of fence due to bull bouts several times over my 30 years as a rancher.

Cows are just as bad — they'll go visit the neighbor's bull so they can have the calf in January. They'll plop a patty right on your doorstep, or dent your one-ton 4x4 scratching their heads — or their butts.

I've got one heifer named Myrtle who tops them all for her ability to weaponize sheer dopiness to aggravate me. She refuses outright to drink out of the automatic waterer—you know, those so-called frost-free contraptions (invariably frosted up all winter) with the floating ball that opens the valve when animals drink? Every other cow in creation can figure it out, slurping down gallons in minutes. But Myrtle, who I helped usher into the world with my bare hands I might add, absolutely refuses. She will, however, stand six feet away and watch the whole herd water, sometimes two at a time.

I tried in vain to show her how it works. I even, I'm not afraid to admit, got down on my hands and knees and, with a little "moo" for good measure, demonstrated it to her. She just stared at me, bovine mirth apparent on her broad face, while cow water dripped from mine onto the dirt.

"See?" I shouted at her, almost frantic. "Ain't nothing to it! Just drink, Myrtle, you damn fool!"

She wouldn't, though.

I had to purchase a 1,000-gallon tank to stand next to the fountain, just for her, before she would drink. In point of fact, I first tried 100-gallon, then 250-gallon, then 500-gallon tanks. No, she would not drink — she would die of thirst first. Only the 1,000-gallon tank met her needs, and now I'm left with three extra tanks that I don't need. What am I going to do with them? Maybe fill them with whiskey and drown my sorrows. Or Myrtle herself.

"Someday, Myrtle..." I mutter to myself while I have to lead her to the tank to drink, "someday I'm going to cover you in ketchup and sandwich you between two buns, I swear to God."

Maybe you expect me to change my tune at the end. Maybe tell a little story about how it's all worth it when you watch them stand up for the first time, or when you make friends with one of the cows and they come up to get nose rubs or pets. Maybe you expect me to solemnly intone that the challenging but rewarding act of animal husbandry makes it all worthwhile after all.

Absolutely not. No. If I could change my career path over again, I think I would pick something else, like maybe a photographer for Playboy, or a billionaire investor who does most of his work from a yacht. I might even keep on with being a rancher, if I could ranch something marginally less awful than cattle, like emus, ostriches, capybaras, alligators, guinea fowl, or snails. Hell, I'd rather have a ranch full of personal injury attorneys who charge by the hour than cattle.

There are, however, two factors that give me at least some small satisfaction as a cattle rancher, that justify, in short, all of the toil.

One is that, again, they really are tasty. I feel this must be stressed. Have you ever tried beef? It's good on tacos!

The other is a little more theological.

In the Good Book, Pharaoh had a troubling dream he couldn't interpret. He dreamed of seven fat, sleek cattle grazing among the reeds on the delta. He watched as seven sickly, skeletally thin cattle emerged from the Nile and, to his horror, ate his seven fatted cows up whole.

Well, I'm not much of a prognosticator, but I do consider myself the pharaoh of my little spread. If I had a dream, it might have been this: seven skeletal Myrtles eating one pleasantly portly old broke rancher.

If God wants us to suffer, then it is good and meet that it is so. We all have our cross to bear, of course, so if His instrument of suffering is cattle in my case, then so be it. Suffer I will, and in so doing hopefully I will do my part to atone for Adam.

But a couple of mornings ago, as I tried for the thousandth time to get poor, dumb Myrtle to drink out of a fountain designed specifically to accommodate her species, I had what you might call a small crisis of faith.

She wouldn't drink. She demanded the tank, as ever.

So I filled it up for her, muttering under my breath so the Lord wouldn't hear:

"Dominion, my ass."