Demon Box

But ardor that knows no bounds neither knows any boundaries. He wasn’t a movement leader like Ebenezer but he was just as hard on my fences. One morning he wasn’t in our pasture. I found the twisted gap in the wire, but Hamburger was nowhere to be seen. Butch, my neighbor Olaf’s son, finally brought us the news that his dad had Hamburger chained in his barn. When I went over to get him, Olaf says, “Come on in the house. I’ll have the woman make us a pot of fresh coffee. I want to talk to ya.”

I trust Olaf. Like most of my farming neighbors he has to hold down a job to support his right to labor on his own land. He’s out working his fields the minute he’s home from the woods; he doesn’t even change out of his calk boots.

We chatted the first cup away. After the second cup he says, “That bull’s become a breacher—dangerous. Guernsey bulls’ll do that, all to once one day decide to be hateful. And this’n has decided. From now on he’s gonna go through any fence any gate any damn thing that happens to stand between him and anything he fancies. Till eventually he’s gonna turn on a human being. Maybe not a grown man, but he wouldn’t hesitate to turn on a kid or a woman trying to head him. Ya can bet money on it. He’s got that look in his eye.”

We went out to his barn and peered through the rails. There was no denying it: what had once been just hard and horny was now a look burning with the first coals of hate for the human oppressor.

“I’ll butcher the bastard tomorrow,” I said.

“Now don’t do that. Ya don’t want to be eatin’ hate. He’s still young enough so he oughten be too tough, but he’ll have all that breachin’ and screwin’ and sod-pawin’ in his blood. The meat’d be rank as a billygoat. What it is ya’ll have to do is put him in a fattening pen and top him off with grain for about forty days. Try to get his mind off all the hellin’ around after hot heifers.”

We built the pen out of railroad ties and telephone poles, but I had my doubts about changing Hamburger’s mind. Not only was he still horny, with those heifers crooning at him every night from miles around—“Hamburger… Hammm-burger, honey”—those coals in his eyes were hotter with each passing penned-up day. When we saw that the weeks of solitary were making him no mellower, were in fact making him rush daily fiercer at the fence when we brought his grain out, and roar and rumble nightly louder and louder like a pent-up volcano of sperm, we finally resorted to putting a potion in his serving of morning mash, hoping to raise his consciousness, if not up to the Knowledge of the Glorious All-Pervading Mercy that Passeth Understanding, at least up out of his scrotum.

Our potion produced more agitation, it seemed, than enlightenment. He stood staring into the empty bucket a few minutes, slobbering and twitching. Then he gave a mighty fart and charged. He leveled a railroad tie with his first rush (it must have been a good one; we had estimated his weight as that of six men and medicated him accordingly). When he crashed out we headed for high places, stumbling over each other in our realization of what we had wrought, but his hormones were apparently stronger than his hate; forgetting his scattering tormentors, he stampeded straight for the neglected herd. Far into the night we could hear the debauchery.

Betsy phoned Sam’s Slaughtering. The little refrigerated aluminum truck was there at dawn. Sam’s son John got out and took the .22 rifle from the rack behind the seat. Sam no longer did the actual knockover. He was content to stay back at the butcher shop and argue with deer hunters while his son took care of the field work. John was only about eighteen at this time. Though not a licensed butcher, years of accompanying his father on these killing runs had taught John something about death and timing. He knew to arrive at dawn, to stroll out to the condemned animal before it was fully awake (a wave of his hand, a call—“Hey! Here!”—a sharp crack…) and to drop it with the first shot.

The resulting quake of terror that runs from one end of the farm to the other after this shot must never enter the mind of the victim, or the meat. Ya don’t wanta to be eatin’ fear, neither. As far as John and I and the cows are concerned, this is what kosher was originally supposed to be about.