The time has come to take the two-year old steers to the slaughter house.  Three went today, the other three will go at the end of October. It is satisfying to be able to provide people food that has been raised with love, but it is also a sad time.  As I made all the preparations this week for today’s drive to Willcox, my heart has been full of memories of these animals from the years since they were newborn calves.

This may sound strange, but I am proud of these steers, not for anything they will provide, but just for being themselves. I am proud of them for growing, for their big bodies, their shaggy coats turned summer-sleek and black. For how they are each different, how they have as much personality as people. For their thick necks, their liquid eyes, for the ways they walk–some with head lowered and lumbering, some with head high with a prancing gait.

I am proud of them for their big bodies and their forceful personalities. They are unapologetic. They push and shove into each other, full of youth and strength and energy. They are full up of themselves, full of their own life. I am proud of them for growing up. For their swagger and swank. 

The oldest, Chuck, is the last steer of Cruella’s, who died last year, so I am also reminded of her when I see him.  They were always close, and I remember her teaching him how to eat palo verde shoots on range. I also remember him standing near her when she was sick last year, looking worried, even though he was long since weaned.

I was there just minutes after Velma’s Porter was born. It’s funny to look back at the blog post I wrote that day to see how little he was and to remember him when he couldn’t even stand up yet.

Frenchie was nicknamed by Andrew because he managed to sprout a fine set of horns and we needed a musical name to go with his grandma Melody and mom Harmony.  So of course he became French Horns…

Thanks go to each of these animals for the part they play in the herd. They will be missed.