The Day 6160 Declared War

The only two things that’ll never admit to having a fault are politicians and full-grown bulls, and only one of them can talk about it afterward.

6160 was twenty-five hundred pounds of bad intentions tied together with brisket and horns. The bull had one eye half-clouded from an old fight and a disposition sour enough to curdle fresh milk at ten paces. We kept him in the north pasture because the south pasture contained civilization, taxpayers, and several items the ranch still needed to pay off in full.

That morning, I was fixing fences beneath a hard Nevada sun while 6160 watched me. The electric wire had been sagging low all week, and I finally tightened it properly.

6160 did not appreciate modernization.

Now, a bull will spend half his life testing fences to see if the Lord has changed His mind overnight. 6160 eased forward slowly, snorting steam, throwing dirt, and carrying on like he intended to whip the entire county fair.

Then 6160 touched his nose to that hot wire. The crack sounded like somebody snapping a pool cue over a bully’s head.

6160 launched backward six feet, bellered to Heaven, spun sideways, and looked directly at me with the purest hatred I have ever seen outside of politics. You would have thought I’d hidden behind the post and jabbed him personally with lightning.

6160 came for me at once.

I cleared that fence with the athletic grace of a burglar escaping a hardware store under threat of a shotgun. 6160 slammed against the rails, roaring and pawing dirt while I hung on the far side, trying to remember every prayer my grandmother ever taught me.

For ten straight minutes, 6160 glared and bellowed at me as if I had betrayed a lifelong friendship, which was interesting, because up until then, our relationship had consisted mainly of him attempting murder and me avoiding it. Eventually, the bull settled down, and 6160 stood there breathing hard, ears twitching, trying to sort out whether electricity lived in the fence or inside me personally.

By evening, 6160 wandered back over, calm as a Sunday deacon, chewing hay and pretending none of it had happened. That is another trait cattle share with politicians: once the damage gets done, everybody agrees to move on without discussing the details.

Still, after that day, 6160 never touched that wire again. He did, however, continue blaming me for it.