John didn't like that bull.
He stood there, staring across the fence, watching the bull pull another mouthful of grass from its roots. Waiting for the bull to look back.
It never did.
John looked at the peeling wooden gate, the only thing separating him from the pasture. His eyes turned to the rusty latch holding it shut, proving man's superiority through possession of opposable thumbs. He leaned against the fence, flecks of decade-old paint adhering to his leather gloves. Leather. The skin of the beast, made to serve man’s purpose. Gloves encasing the hands, the fingers which cowkind has never known, the instruments through which humanity has produced all the great works of the earth.
He stared at the bull. The great slavering beast paid him no mind. It cared not whether John wore leather gloves, or whether it could undo the latch which seperated it from the world outside. It knew of the world of grass. It knew of being a stud, of spreading its seed more times in a year than John would ever know. It knew nothing of technology, of rust, of opposable thumbs. What use would any of that be? It had the grass, and the grass was good.
John gazed on, watching the bull feed. He counted and recounted the ways that he was greater than this... this thing. Who was he to be ignored by this lower form of life, to be paid no heed by this servant of man?
The bull heard the scrape of the rust that it had no word for. It needed no words. It knew, in its own way, that the was a challenger, and it would have no opposition in its pasture.
John spent most of the ride to the hospital thinking murderous thoughts of hamburger.
He stood there, staring across the fence, watching the bull pull another mouthful of grass from its roots. Waiting for the bull to look back.
It never did.
John looked at the peeling wooden gate, the only thing separating him from the pasture. His eyes turned to the rusty latch holding it shut, proving man's superiority through possession of opposable thumbs. He leaned against the fence, flecks of decade-old paint adhering to his leather gloves. Leather. The skin of the beast, made to serve man’s purpose. Gloves encasing the hands, the fingers which cowkind has never known, the instruments through which humanity has produced all the great works of the earth.
He stared at the bull. The great slavering beast paid him no mind. It cared not whether John wore leather gloves, or whether it could undo the latch which seperated it from the world outside. It knew of the world of grass. It knew of being a stud, of spreading its seed more times in a year than John would ever know. It knew nothing of technology, of rust, of opposable thumbs. What use would any of that be? It had the grass, and the grass was good.
John gazed on, watching the bull feed. He counted and recounted the ways that he was greater than this... this thing. Who was he to be ignored by this lower form of life, to be paid no heed by this servant of man?
The bull heard the scrape of the rust that it had no word for. It needed no words. It knew, in its own way, that the was a challenger, and it would have no opposition in its pasture.
John spent most of the ride to the hospital thinking murderous thoughts of hamburger.
