Roger Maxson
Pigs In Paradise
7
Mating Season
Bruce watched Blaise as she made her way up the slope. He liked the way she walked, the way her hips switched back and forth, the way her tail swished this way and that way. He loved Blaise, but he also knew across the road and two pastures away the moshavnik Perelman hid the Israeli Holsteins down in a meadow behind the dairy barn and lemon grove. He watched her switch and walk. He watched her walk and switch, her tail waving at him as she grazed in the next pasture. She and Beatrice were near the terraced slopes, where the sheep and goats grazed. In the early morning sunshine, Bruce watched Blaise as she moved across the brown-green pasture, her tail swish-swashing as she strutted off toward the pond.
Bruce was every bit of 1200-pounds of muscle, a combination of Simmental, and patient, and Zebu or Brahman, and heat tolerant. And although he was tolerant, he was also hot and impatient. All the same, he was noted for his calm, easy-going way and reasonable disposition. He had small thick horns that turned inward from the temples and a white-patched, red face. Even with his docile temperament, his large scrotal size made him a prize on the moshav for breeding, and a grand specimen of a reddish-coated, thick-muscled, Simbrah bull to behold.
Blaise, although somewhat temperamental on the other hand, an Island Jersey (as opposed to the American Jersey) and 800 pounds, was an object of refinement and beauty, and his affection. She had a smooth unbroken chocolate color pattern in her body, but was a darker chocolate mousse in the hips, about the head, ears, and shoulders. She also had a well-attached udder with small teats, and Bruce knew within a matter of months Blaise would be freshened, her udder and teats laden with milk due to his charm, patience, and spunk.
Stanley came trotting out of the barn with his tail in the air and the smell of Beatrice in his nostrils. He paraded along the fence past Bruce who ignored him, standing next to the watering tank on the other side.
“How now, blue-balls cow?” he neighed.
“Fuck off.”
Stanley came from a long line of Belgian draft horses who at one time had carried knights into battle and then toiled in the soil shackled to the plow. Once gangling and stout, squared at the shoulders to pull the weight and carry the load, now though, through years of breeding, had become smooth, more rounded at the shoulders, more athletic, and showy. And Stanley was athletic and showy, a black Belgian stallion with only a slender patch of white diamond that went down his long nose.
“Now, now, bull-cow, you might have a lower hanging pair than me, but when it comes to the rest of it, nothing like this.” Stanley reared back onto his muscular hind legs and jumped. As his massive member bounced, the crowd went wild. Once again, spectators had gathered around the four corners of the pasture, men in their respective place based on religious faith, beliefs, and borders, all of them there to watch the black stallion mount the bay mare, none of them aware that the bay mare might have something to say about it.
“I’d be careful —” Julius called as he flew over, his under feathers yellow in the sun, and landed on the gate post. “I can’t fly and talk at the same time — if I were you.”
Stanley snorted, “Even his horns are small.”
“Notice anything different today, Stanley?” Julius walked up along the fence post to the open gate. “I wouldn’t want to get his dander up if I were you. Nothing is keeping him from Blaise, Beatrice, or you, for that matter.” Julius alighted on Bruce’s hindquarters. Flapping his blue wings, he folded his golden under feathers behind him in a long plumage of tail. “If Bruce wants, Bruce gets. He’ll come over there and take Beatrice from you. If he wants, he’ll come over there and take you.”
“He can try,” Stanley huffed, “but I’d be too fast for him anyway. End of story.”
Bruce ignored Stanley mostly, watching him out the right side of his head. “Better move along little doggie,” he said.
“Stanley, you and Bruce now have full access and your choice of co-habitators. That means nothing is keeping you from Beatrice except Beatrice.”
“I know that.”
“Run along, horsey, before you wear yourself out.”
“Oh, might wear you out.” Stanley trotted off in a huff. “Wear out, huh? Wear you out, you mean,” Stanley said from a safe distance. He saw Beatrice near the pond. She was in the same pasture as him. He ran up alongside her.
“Why don’t you leave the poor beast alone,” Beatrice said.
“What? Oh that, nonsense. We’re friends, just a little male rivalry.”
Julius stretched, flapping his blue-and-gold wings over Bruce’s hindquarters. “This has got to be the finest rump roast I’ve seen. I’d be careful where you shake that thing. The neighbors might covet it.”
Stanley and Beatrice grazed in the same pasture. Beatrice grazed. Stanley paraded about, showing off his prowess to the roar of the crowd. “Look, Beatrice, the moshavnik opened the gate so we could be together. So, let’s get together. It’s only natural. It’s something we’re supposed to do. Listen, baby, look what you’ve done to me. I can’t walk or think straight with this club foot. It hurts when I do this.” He reared back onto his massive hind legs to wild applause.
“You, foolish horse,” she said and walked away.
“Baby, please, you don’t understand. We have an audience, fans we can’t let down. They’re here for me–you, us, for us.”
Beatrice, exasperated, stopped. “Would you do me a favor?”
“What is it? Anything for you, baby.”
“Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?”
“Someone might have a camera for just this sort of thing, you know. You know, I could be famous, a star! Come on, Beatrice, don’t be shy, please. Please, Beatrice, wait.”
Beatrice stopped.
“What? What did I say?”
“I’m sure whoever has the camera would gladly get you a girl too. I understand in certain communities, probably this one included, some people like just that sort of thing.”
“Well, yeah, if she’s in a habit.”
Beatrice turned and walked away. “These people aren’t here for that though. They’re here for me–you, us, I mean.” She went into the next pasture to graze alongside Blaise.
Blaise said, “How do you do?”
“I do fine. Thank you for asking.”
Julius alighted in the branches of the great olive tree where the ravens Ezekiel and Dave were. Along the slopes, a herd of lesser and younger animals grazed along the second-tiered slope of the terraced landscape. Blaise and Beatrice grazed nearby as ducks and geese swam and bathed in the pond near the barn lot as pigs lounged along its muddy banks in the mid-morning sun. Julius moved through the olive tree along one of the lower hanging branches.
“I interrupt this program to bring you the following announcement.”
“Wait,” cried a piglet. “What is it this time, the earth’s round?” He pealed with laughter and rolled in the dirt.
A gaggle of geese gabbed as usual, “The earth’s flat and that’s that.” And with that, the knowledgeable hens turned and waddled off, their heads held high on slender necks.
“I crack those eggs up every time.”
“I know,” said a young sheep, but a lamb. “The earth’s round and more than 6000 years old!” The lambs joined the pigs with laughter.
“For such a little lamb that wolf has teeth.”
Without Molly and Praline to keep the young sheep on the correct course of inquiry, this was what was had, sheep influenced by pigs.
“The sun is the center of the universe and the big, round earth rotates around the sun! Is that it?” a duck quacked.
“Well, since you put it that way, yes.”
Dave’s feathers were ruffled. He shook his head. He turned to Ezekiel and said, “Give them something to think with and this is what you get.”
“Ignore these animals, Julius,” Blaise said. “What is the announcement you wish to make?”
“Pete Seeger is my hero. Where I come from, he was everyone’s hero until they turned orthodox and emigrated to Brooklyn.”
“And I suppose you’d like a hammer?”
“And, yes, I suppose I would.”
“You’re a bird,” Beatrice said, “a parrot. What can you do with a hammer?”
“I have claws, and I’m not afraid to use them. I use paintbrushes, don’t I?”
“How would anyone know what you do with them? No one’s seen anything you do.”
“I’m shy, a work in progress.”
“Julius, what would you do if you had a hammer, a smallish hammer if you like?”
“Blaise, ‘if I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning. I’d hammer in the evening, all over this land. I’d hammer out warning. I’d hammer out danger. I’d hammer out love between my brothers and my sisters, all over this land.’ If only I had a hammer?”
“Well, will someone please get this busy macaw a hammer?”
“We’re animals. How can we get him a hammer?”
“Where are those ravens when you need them?” Julius said. “Oh, there you are. Never mind, I don’t need a hammer.” Julius left the tree branch and perched on Blaise’s left shoulder, near her ear. “Although he may not show it, not like Stanley anyway, Bruce has great desire. He’s fond of you. You’ll see,” Julius said and winked. Blaise was unable to see him wink. She didn’t need to. She knew from the inflection in his voice.
“What are you, Julius, his agent, I suppose?”
“He’s a friend. Besides, everyone needs love. Everyone needs a friend.”
“Yes, well, Julius, I’m quite aware of Bruce’s proclivities, thank you very much.”
“Proclivities,” Julius said to the ravens in the olive tree. “She’s from England, you know. She even has an island named after her. It’s called Blaise.”
“Yes, well, there’s a Guernsey somewhere with an island named after her as well, so don’t think too much of it. And it’s not Blaise, you silly bird.”
“Modest, too, wouldn’t you say?”
“Thank goodness Bruce isn’t a show-off like Manly Stanley,” said Beatrice.
“Yes, he’s more like me in that respect,” Julius said. “We’re more reserved and less showy.”
“More like you, less showy, you don’t say?”
“That’s not to say we don’t have something to crow about, we just prefer not to.”
Beatrice nudged Blaise, and they laughed.
Julius flapped his great wings and flew off to rejoin Bruce grazing in the middle of the pasture behind the barn. He landed on the great beast’s backside and made his way along his right shoulder.
“Watch those claws, and whatever you have to say, speak softly if you’re going to sit there all day, spouting off.”
“Yes, we wouldn’t want the mule’s spies overhearing anything we might say either.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“Yes, I agree, and everyone has one. I have one. You have one. People have them, too, everyone, assholes. What they,” Julius said, “those made in God’s image, prefer to call a soul.”
“Whatever you call it, it’s still an asshole and he’s full of shit.”
“I’m going to have to ratchet it up with the mule. I need to make that old mule a mule.”
“Why bother?”
“If only one animal hears me and sees through this nonsense, well, then, I’ll feel that I’ve done some good.”
“They’re animals, domesticated farm animals. They need to believe in something and follow someone.”
“Well, then, why not you?” Julius said.
“I like Howard,” Bruce said. “He’s a better alternative to the mule, but cerebral loses out to the meaty flesh of sin and shit.”
“I like him, too, but like his mulish rival, he is a celibate. No flocking for that boar, which makes him quite the bore, and just as the old mule can’t, that boar won’t. All for a good cause, of course, nothing,” Julius said.
Bruce leaned down to graze and Julius almost tumbled off.
“Careful, wish you’d warn me next time you do that, the nerve.” Julius climbed up along Bruce’s backside, lest he lost his balance and had to fly off, but Julius wasn’t going anywhere.
“From what I saw, you’re losing the battle for assholes.”
“They’re young. They’re impressionable,” Julius said, “but if not me, then who?”
Bruce turned and raised his tail and defecated, a large warm mound of bullshit formed behind him as he moved away.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Julius said. “Yo, dude, that is some deep shit, man. Seriously, though, your timing is impeccable. What economy of words! What clarity! You’ve certainly proven Edward De Vere correct who wrote, ‘Brevity is the soul of wit.’”
Bruce was chewing his cud, “Who?”
“Edward De Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford.”
“Whatever.”
“And by the size of that mound, Wit large.” Julius bounded along Bruce’s backbone to his shoulders. “Do you know why God gave man thumbs? So, he could pick up our shit.”
“I don’t believe you believe in God.”
“I don’t believe the joke would have worked as well.”
“What joke?”
* * *
That night while most people were tucked away in their beds asleep, the bay mare, on the other hand, nuzzled up against the black Belgian Stallion in the barn lot, running her nose up along his great neck. Stanley neighed and shook his mane and stamped his feet. Beatrice stepped in front of Stanley and pushed against him, pushing against his smooth, rounded barrel chest. Without an audience in attendance, Manly Stanley snorted, and reared back onto his muscular hind legs, and covered Beatrice in the moonlight.
8
Wonderful Today
Stanley and Beatrice grazed together as the sun came up around them. Bruce and Blaise grazed nearby. All four animals demonstrated voracious appetites to the dismay of those who had gathered around to see the live, mating-season show. Disheartened, they, the Muslims, Jews, and Christians alike, all went their separate ways, in different directions to their homes and locations.
“Well, hello, Beatrice, how do you do?”
“Hello, Blaise of Jersey, I do fine, thank you. So nice of you to ask, though.” Beatrice smiled, “And, how are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. I’m wonderfully well.”
“Yes, the sun has given you such a nice color.”
“Thank you for noticing,” Blaise said, and smiled at her friend. “Isn’t it a gloriously lovely day?”
“Yes, it is,” Beatrice said. “I couldn’t agree with you more, just wonderful today.”
As they walked off together, Blaise said, “Dear Beatrice, no one molests you, do they?” They laughed happily.
“Not even a saddle.”
“Not even Manly Stanley.”
“Well, unless I want him to. There is a difference,” Beatrice said and the two friends laughed. They knew there was grain to be had in the barn, and so it was off to the barn they headed.
“Hey,” Stanley said when he saw Bruce.
Bruce nodded. The two great males of the moshav, the shimmering black Belgian stallion, and the reddish-coated Simbrah bull, continued to graze in the main pasture in the morning sun together among the sheep and goats.
9
BBC
or
Why did the Bull Cross the Road?
Bruce found himself back in his little pasture of the world. It was the feedlot behind the barn. He shook his great head and massive shoulders. He knew where the Israeli Holsteins were. Bruce raised his head as a light breeze blew over from the direction of the Holsteins. Local girls, a herd of 12, and Bruce loved BBC, big beautiful cows. As he contemplated the Holsteins, a couple of them had ventured up to the fence across the road. They grazed a little along the fence, but had come up to the road mostly to tease and taunt Bruce.
Standing inside the fence one of the heifers called out, “Oh moo-hoo, Brucee, are you there? When are you ever going to come back and see us, big boy? My goodness, how long has it been, years at least if not longer?”
“This may be true for you, but if dreams do come true, this will be my first time,” the younger heifer said. “I mean, alive and warm anyway. I’m a little nervous. The first time was through artificial insemination and that was no fun.”
“Oh, my, my, my, Bruce does not disappoint. My dear, you’re in for a treat, and not to worry. Bruce is both gentle and fun and at the same time too.”
“But there’s a barn lot of us. Can he manage, you know, all of us in one night?”
“Oh, my, yes, dear. He’s the only male species who can impregnate us all through the course of an evening, and yet satisfy too. He’ll take his time, you’ll see.”
“Thank goodness. Anything’s got to be better than a cold, sterile instrument.”
“We only need one bull, my dear, and there’s only one Bruce, and he’s ours.”
The two heifers shared a laugh and rubbed shoulders as they sauntered off down inside the road to the meadow past the lemon grove. The Israeli Holsteins were head and shoulders larger than Blaise. They were close in stature to Bruce, nearly all of them 12 hundred pounds. A mixture of black and white, with black being the dominant color; each of the 12 cows had a large, full, low-hanging udder and big teats, and all of them white. Although similar in design, each cow had her own, unique personality. Bruce loved them all and would know each one after the other intimately before the night was over. He caught their scent wafting on the night air and it was nice.
He walked along the fence to the gate that opened onto the road that separated the two main pastures. He breathed deeply and snorted through his nostrils. It had four wooden planks. Bruce raised a hoof and kicked out the second rung from the bottom of the gate. Then he kicked and broke in half the third plank. He used his massive head and pushed through the upper rung to get to the other side. Not wanting to rush things or hurt himself, he stepped over the fourth rung one hoof at a time, careful not to scrape his low-hanging scrotum against the bottom rail. Once he cleared the bottom rung, he crossed the road toward the opposite pasture. One more gate stood between him and earthly bliss. At the fence, he looked over the barbed wire (which was in place as much to keep the Muslims out as it was to keep the heifers in), but couldn’t see the dairy cows because of the row of lemon trees. He knew they were there. The Holsteins were hidden from view by the lemon grove along the fence line in the meadow in the back of what was the dairy operation of the farm. He could hear them and smell them down in the meadow. Bruce kicked the lower rung and raised a hoof and broke in half the middle one. He then used his horns to push through the upper rail. He stepped into the pasture and looked up and down the fence line. To his liking, he saw no one. He ambled along the field road down past the lemon grove into the meadow on the trail of 12 big beautiful cows in waiting.
When Bruce approached the heifers, it was dark under a clear sky with the same moon as the night before. They startled and scattered about, but none of them moved too far away lest she missed something important.
“Here I am, girls. Here I am,” he said.
“Hey, look girls. It’s Brucee! I told you he’d come.”
“Oh, my Bruce!” mooed a mature Holstein, happy to see him.
“Shalom you, naughty devil,” said another Israeli Holstein, obviously an old friend.
“Come here you, old dawg,” said another as she slid up against him.
“Shush,” he said. “Now quiet down, girls. We wouldn’t want to be found out, not yet anyway. I just got here.”
“Right, heavens no, we wouldn’t want that,” they mooed gleefully, rubbing their muzzles and bodies against him in the moonlight.
“Besides, this is not according to plan. All hell would break loose if we woke the neighbors.”
10
Curses
On Perelman’s moshav, it was mayhem and chaos. The bull had somehow gotten into the pasture with the Holsteins and all of Juan Perelman’s animal husbandry and planning had been shot in one night with each shot fired by the bull. Bruce was famished.
“Harah,” the moshavnik Juan Perelman said.
“Shit,” one of the Chinese laborers translated.
“Benzona,” Perelman said. It was his moshav.
“Son of a bitch.”
“Beitsim,” Perelman said.
“Balls.”
“Mamzer.”
“Goddamn bastard,” said the Chinese laborer.
“Excuse me,” said his countryman, and a gentleman. “He did not say Goddamn.”
“I’m a Taoist. What do I care?” His countryman, and a gentleman, was also a Buddhist, as was the Thai laborer. Even though they were Buddhists, there was no friendly ground shared between the two men because one’s Buddha was bigger than the other’s Buddha.
Juan Perelman said, “I’ll bet the Egyptians had something to do with this.”
“What are you going to do?” Isabella Perelman said as she walked up to join her husband at the fence.
“I’m thinking.”
“Get rid of them,” she said. “Other moshavim have their issues, like us with land and water. Sale them off, all of them.” She was attractive, with dark eyes, and long dark hair.
“I don’t know?”
“Ship them off then, or give them away if you have to, but let’s finally turn the soil over on this farm and into crops and fruit trees, fig, date, olive trees, and fields of grain, wheat, and hayfields. Feed the people something. They don’t eat pig.”
The Chinese and Thai laborers exchanged looks. Wait a minute, they thought, we’re people too.
“That’s not the issue here, Isabella. It’s the dairy operation that’s in question.”
“Well, how do you know he impregnated them anyway? I mean, seriously 12 Holsteins and the Jersey only a day before.”
“Look at him. He’s famished. I imagine he’s lost a hundred pounds in two days.” Bruce covered a lot of ground, gnawing away at the grass under hoof where he went. “Look how his balls hang. He got to them all and something’s got to be done about it.”
“Still, Juan, don’t we want the cows producing milk?”
“We can only handle four freshened cows at a time, maybe five, but not twelve–thirteen! We don’t have the resources to handle all of them, and the pigs, and all the other animals.”
“Why can’t we just sell or move cows to other moshavim?”
“I don’t want to. Besides, they have issues already and can’t add ours to theirs. Water is an issue for everyone, as is the land.”
Vengeance was theirs — his, or so said Juan Perelman, the moshavnik, whose moshav the bull had just ruined.
“I want this bull to be taught a lesson,” he said.
“What then, abort the calves?”
“No, call Rabbi Ratzinger.”
“A rabbi,” she said, “why a rabbi?”
“This is who we are. I’ll show him to mess with me. Curse this bull anyway. We need a rabbi at a time like this.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Won’t stand for this.”
The Chinese and Thai farm laborers corralled the bull and drove him back into the feedlot behind the barn and away from the other animals. They waited for the arrival of the rabbi.
Juan Perelman said, “This bull shall suffer the wrath of God and then some.” Isabella headed for the farmhouse. Juan called after her, “He will pay for what he has done.”
“Whatever,” she said, waving him off with her hand.
“This is an abomination.”
Rabbi Ratzinger arrived with his entourage, male members of his congregation. They followed him in lock-step, all moving as one from the car to the field and the lot behind the barn. The rabbi had a gray beard and wore a black fedora, a black frock coat, a white shirt, and Bermuda shorts. It was a hot day under the sun, a gift from G-d. The shorts were modest, and the rabbi’s legs very white and thin, also a gift from G-d. The members of the congregation wore fedoras with dark clothes, pants, and coats with white shirts. Their beards and curls were of various lengths and shades of black to brown to gray. They wore un-shined black shoes and white socks.
The rabbi said, “He shall suffer from here to eternity for what he has done without our permission or blessing. This is an abomination against G-d and shall not go unpunished. This is a lesson to be learned by animals of this moshav and by animals of all moshavim.” He continued then to deliver his curse of curses to condemn this bull of this moshav for all eternity.
Thus, sayeth Rabbi Ratzinger, “With much ado and with the judgment of the angels, and of the saints of heaven, we of the temple mount do solemnly condemn to here, and we excommunicate, cut, curse, maim, defeat, bully, and anathematize the Simbrah bull of the Perelman moshav and with the consent of the elders and all the holy congregation, in the presence of the holy books. Let it be known not of this moshav or any moshavim is he to be acknowledged of but an outcast for his sins against the moshavnik Perelman by the 613 precepts which are written therein with the anathema wherewith Joshua cursed Jericho, with the curse which Elisha laid upon the children and with all the curses which are written in the law. We curse the bull; we curse thy offspring, progeny.” Rabbi Ratzinger was interrupted when one of his congregation assistants whispered in his ear.
“Yes, of course.” The rabbi cleared his throat and resumed his litany. “We shall allow the offspring to prosper and to grow and bear milk and meat for the nourishment of the multitudes until then that day comes when his progeny is no more, for they have long been consumed and have perished from this earth. With this one exception cursed be he by day and cursed be he by night. Cursed be he in sleeping and cursed be he in walking, cursed in going about the fields and cursed he when coming into the paddocks to feed and drink. The bull shall not spawn his evil seed again upon the earth.”
Bruce sneezed and shook his great head.
“The Lord shall not pardon him, the wrath and fury of the Lord shall henceforth be kindled against this animal, and shall lay upon him all the curses which are written in the book of the law. The Lord shall destroy his name under the sun, his presence, his seed, and cut him and cut him off for his undoing from all animals that graze on this moshav, and all moshavim of Israel, with all the curses of the firmament which are written in the book of the law.”
When the rabbi finished his curse of biblical proportion, someone said, “Look, Rabbi, what should be done about that?”
Near the pond, the Yorkshire boar poured dollops of mud and water over the heads and shoulders of young lambs and kids.
“Nothing,” said Rabbi Ratzinger. “That is of little consequence.”
Something hit the rabbi, splattering against the lapel of his frock coat. Julius, followed by the ravens, flew over and bombed Rabbi Ratzinger and his entourage with bird shit. Julius had gotten off a direct hit, splattering yellowish feces up the lapel of the rabbi’s frock coat. Ezekiel hit one in the brim of his hat as Dave let fly a whitish smear into another man’s dark beard. Other farm fowl, whether they flew like the geese or waddled like the ducks or simply clucked, all came to defend Bruce, attacking from air and land, biting, snapping, smearing feces over hats and frocks and boots. Depending on which direction the farm fowl attacked, they flew and ran, and defecated on the rabbi and his solemn congregation.
Someone opened an umbrella over the rabbi, a gift from G-d, as they scattered, running for cover in the direction from which they’d come.
It was too late for Bruce, however, with the curse set already in motion. He had been cursed to a life of death.
Isabella Perelman walked up to the feedlot fence where Juan Perelman stood. “Juan, do you honestly believe any of this will be of any good?” Her black hair was pulled back. She wore a matching riding jacket and britches, with black boots. She held a black derby helmet under her arm. The Thai laborer led the Belgian stallion by the reins with an English saddle strapped to him. Stanley couldn’t remember the last time anyone had placed him under such distress with the weight of a saddle, and in that saddle, a rider. Had it been her? If it had been anyone better, better her than anyone else.
To ensure that the rabbi’s curse had taken hold, and would remain intact from now until forever, the laborers draped a burlap sack over the bull’s great head. He moaned and pushed against them and moved sideways, but the laborers held tight as they twisted his neck by the horns. Bruce groaned as they pulled him down to the ground, his front legs buckling under him. The laborers rolled him over in the dirt onto his side.
“Juan, is this necessary? Juan, this is not necessary.”
“It’s necessary if the curse is to work,” he said. “There will be no doubts about it.”
Isabella padded the horse’s forehead, running her palm over his white diamond, and whispered, “There, there, Tevya, don’t worry. It’s okay, boy. Take it easy now. Everything’s going to be all right.” She placed her left boot toe in the stirrup and pulled herself up and mounted the horse, settling into the English saddle. She held tight to the reins as Stanley, aka, Tevya, neighed and backed up a couple of steps, adjusting to the weight of the rider.
“This is cruel, Juan. This is inhumane.” But her protestations came too late and fell on deaf ears. Juan Perelman was a pragmatist.
“We don’t need a bull anymore, anyway,” he said. “We use artificial insemination. He was just for show.”
She pulled the reins against the Belgian stallion and turned him away from the feedlot. They rode off at a trot along the road that divided the farm. He was rambunctious and stubborn, but she maintained control and held tight to the reins. She patted his neck along his mane. Riding parallel with the Egyptian border, kids from the village tried to hit her with rocks fired from slingshots.
“Take it easy, Tevya. No one’s going to hurt you.”
Stanley saw projectiles flying toward him and he spooked. Isabella Perelman held steady and guided him to continue broadside to the flying rocks and hard mud pieces fired from slingshots, with more than a few hitting Stanley. Although he tried to bolt, she patted his neck. She followed the road to the southern end of the moshav and turned him away from the border and out of range of the Muslims on the hill. They continued at a gallop away from the moshav and into the Israeli countryside.