Llano Vaqueros

Padilla unloads mangy herd of Mexican cattle in the field. Meaner, horns long and sharp for bloody battle, lean from a diet of prairie weed, looking more like cattle did years ago on the plains than cattle now– sluggish, pampered globs stalled year round for State Fair Judges to admire, stall-salon dolls, hooves manicured and polished, hide-hair blow-dried, lips and lashes waxed. I ride down the dirt road on Sunshine (my bay mare) and she smarts away from their disdainful glare– come in, try to lasso us, try to comb our hair. I admire my ancestors, llano vaqueros, who flicked a home-made cigarette in dust, spit in scuffed gloves, grabbed one by the horns, wrestled it down, branded it, with the same pleasure they enjoyed in a bunk-house brawl.