Animal Dump

The traffic is backing up outside my window, which is hecka weird for this part of the county. Sure, it's a highway, but the speed limit is 40. Must be some kind of trouble.

I join the dog in his investigation, our heads weaving into the break in the curtains. I see lights up the road. Red and yellow ones. Some blue, too. That ain't good.

A ladder truck rolls in, his siren prolonged and drowning, like a child's toy winding down. He swivels, then blocks four lanes of traffic. Ain't nobody getting through there.

I see people gather beside an ambulance. A huddle. A frantic huddle.

The folks down the road are sticking their noses outside, lingering on their porches. My curiosity is itching, so I slip on my shoes and bust through my screen door into the summer haze.

My neighbor meets me at my mailbox. We join forces and walk towards the chaos, which is less now. The ambulance has pulled away.

A woman in a black and white striped dress is clutching the back of a man's navy shirt. Her face, buried for a moment in his shoulder, is damp with sweat. Or tears. I can't tell.

As we creep closer, it's clear. There's been a crash. A wreck. The front of a pickup is just... gone. Missing. Shattered shards disappearing in stained asphalt.

And a trailer carrying cows is in the woods. Their handler, a woman in brown boots and cutoffs, seems unshaken. Maybe the panic has passed.

Not for me, though. I can't take my eyes off it. I mean... how could this happen? It's a straight strip. A bright yellow line. A cloudless day. I just...

I tear my eyes from the scene. Leave it to the cops to sort the how out.

I walk up the hill to the lingering porch folks. I meet Billy and Sheryl, who were sitting outside when it happened. He don't know where that blue truck come from. But he heard it. The boom.

Their porch faces mine, about a quarter mile off. I make nice and say I'll wave next time they're out. Then I shuffle home, past the inching traffic, my shirt sticking to my damp back.

The next day, it's cool. As if the crash boom released atmospheric tension. I take to the yard while it's still dewy, trimming the branches that are real bitches when it's time to mow. When I'm done, the grass is a battle field, the limbs my fallen soldiers, the underside of leaves open wounds.

I load up the car and drive to the dump. I love the dump. Never know what you'll find. But you can count on Becky. She weighs me up, rings me in, and passes my ticket through her trailer window. I confirm all I got's brush, and she points me down a dirt trail.

At the end of it, on top of red clay creased by giant tractor tires, sits a two-story pile of tree pieces. And beside the pile.... Beside the pile....

A cow. Bloated that much?

No.

I roll closer. And it's two... three. Three cows in a clump.

White like the ankles and hooves I saw yesterday through the open grooves of a trailer stuck in the woods.

Tongues lolling out. Feet to the sky. Flies buzzing about.

I throw my brush to the edge of the pile and head straight back home. Ugh. I can't shake it. The picture is there. It's ingrained on my brain. It'll be there 'til it's my turn to die.

Two days later, I'm scrolling through news on my phone. And there it is. The wreck. The details. The facts.

They were euthanized.

Rattled, injured, rescued, and killed. And dumped.

Because someone crossed that bright yellow line.

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This story is inspired by actual events that began July 14, 2023. I offer my prayers and condolences to the families impacted by this tragedy. Some lost more than cattle.