MY BUDDY
Copyright 2011 by Lee Carey
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MY ‘BUDDY’
The late summer of ’63 slowly transformed into fall aided by a northerly wind while escorting this thirteen-year-old boy on an unforgettable experience. My decision to join the Virginia Beach 4-H Club steer project seemed natural since we lived on a farm. However, I never expected this adventure would be as enjoyable or as emotional as it proved to be.
A few days earlier, with my father’s assistance, the addition of a stall inside of our barn was completed. After digging into my meager savings, the required equipment and supplies were purchased. Excitement filled the days leading up to Saturday’s steer distribution to the participants.
The big day finally arrived, chilly, but filled with sunshine. My father and I pulled up to a county farm, buzzing with teenagers and parents. Because we kids attended the same school, I knew them. Many had been involved with the 4-H for several years, making me the rookie. After slipping from the truck, I adjusted my new tan, straw cowboy hat with nervous hands and reached into the truck bed and grabbed my rope halter. Maybe holding something will keep my hands from shaking so much.
In silence we walked over to the pen containing the Hertford steers. While my father talked with other men, my eyes remained glued on the steers and my heart rattled around in my chest, trying to escape. Not knowing a lot about what I saw, my concerns focused on how large these animals were, compared to my skinny little frame. Glancing at the rope halter in my hands, I whispered, “I’m actually going to use this flimsy thing to hold one of these hulks?”
The event began when the County Agent’s voice blared through the red and white bullhorn, calling everyone to come gather in front of him. After he laid out the order of distribution, the drawing for the Black Angus steers began. My darting blue eyes took in my friend’s movements as their names were called, but mostly, I watched the nervous steers actions when the rope halters were placed over their muzzles. As the last Angus was led from the corral, the group moved over to the pen of White Faced Hertfords. My stomach filled with butterflies.
The Agent reached into the hat and removed a piece of paper with the name of a 4-H’er. When he bellowed my name into the chilly air, fragrant with cattle poop and sawdust, I moved forward on weak legs and stepped up to the box containing numbers that matched the steer’s ear tags. Taking a nervous breath, my boney fingers pulled one out and handed it to the Agent.
“Lee Carey has drawn number 247, a fine-looking whiteface raised and donated by Mr. C.J. Lee of Virginia Beach.”
My father put his hand on my shoulder and eased me around to the pen’s gate to locate my ‘new four-legged friend’. As we stared into the small herd trying to read the number on the dangling tags, a tall man pulled up beside us. “Howdy, my name is C.J., and you’ve drawn my best steer, Lee.”
I looked up to see a white-haired man with a thick bushy white moustache above a beaming smile and blue eyes beneath the brim of a black Stetson. We all shook hands. With a calm stride, C.J. led us into the pen. “Lee,” he said, taking the rope halter, “I’ll put this on and walk him into my trailer, and then follow y’all to your farm.”
I nodded and watched him move slowly into the herd and stop beside a short, stocky steer. While giving the animal a hearty neck rub, he gently slipped the halter on, and they strolled past us, heading for the gate. “He’s sure a fine one, Lee.”
Back at our farm, the steer was offloaded and led into the new pen filled with clean straw. My heart pounded against my chest like a jackhammer as I anticipated the task of training this large animal. While Mr. Lee and my father talked, I watched the brown-eyed Hertford while he casually slurped cool water from the rubber tub. Well, I guess he needs a name.
Various suggestions raced through my mind. Suddenly the steer turned and looked directly at me, staring. I reached my hand into the pen and was surprised when he walked over and sniffed it. I scratched his broad white forehead, and whispered, “We’re gonna be buddies.” And just like that, I had his name – ‘Buddy’.
The days of school and homework continued, as did the early morning and afternoon feedings and watering of Buddy. Mr. Lee had suggested I allow my steer to relax for a few days and settle into his surroundings before I let him into the pasture. However, after three days, I was now anxious to halter him and take him for a walk around the pasture. My early fear of handling this huge steer had diminished after hours of spending hours in the pen and brushing his shiny coat.
Early, every morning, I would run through the autumn chill on my way to the stable to greet Buddy. When I approached, he would push his large body up from his comfortable bed in the straw and deliver a low bellow, and then a nose wipe with his huge tongue. “Morning, Buddy, here’s your feed, fresh water, and hay. Today when I get home from school we’re gonna take our first walk.” After actually voicing my bold promise, a calming feeling overcame me. Buddy’s wide-eyed stare told me he understood and was content with the afternoon plan. I forced myself from the fragrant barn and raced down the lane to catch the yellow bus.
The school day slowly dragged by, feeling more like a week. When the bus stopped at my house, I hopped off and sprinted up the lane as if my tennis shoes were on fire. In record time I changed clothes, and raced to the stable. Removing the rope halter from the wall, I spoke quietly to Buddy as I stepped inside his pen. With nervous hands, I slipped the halter on and rubbed his back. He looked at me as if to say, ‘I can’t wait to get out of here’.
Entering the grassy pasture, I concentrated on holding the halter firmly while talking softly to him. We walked slowly for a few yards before he snorted, bucked once, and broke into a trot. I joined him. After two laps around the large area, he slowed, and we resumed our normal pace for thirty minutes. From time to time he would stop and eat grass. I waited patiently and scratched his back. This is not bad at all.
After leading him into the stall, I used his curry comb and gave him a thorough brushing. I filled his buckets with the afternoon ration and fresh water. While he ate, I forked out a couple of cow patties, and hopped on the fence rail and watched him enjoying his meal.
This became our afternoon routine. Buddy looked as forward to it as much as I did. Our goal was to walk a mile a day to keep him lean. A week later, we moved from the pasture and into our three-acre front yard. The change was good, besides, I was proud to stroll with him near the country road, watching people eyeing him as they passed.
Weeks turned into months, and Buddy and I continued learning each other’s movements and actions. Every Saturday Mr. C.J. Lee and the County Agent would stop by to see how things were going. They shared valuable knowledge on how to train Buddy to stop and stand correctly on command, along with keeping him calm when someone would come up from behind and put their hands on him. They explained the judges would do this at the show to see if I could control him. My Buddy was a natural. He loved having his belly scratched with the walking cane as he stood in a majestic pose.
One day Mr. C.J. Lee stopped by and told me about his good friend who hosted a local television show. Buddy and I were invited to be on it. I was happier than a frog on a lily pad, knowing Buddy would behave perfectly, and a bunch of people would see us.
The day finally arrived. Mr. Lee brought his trailer to the farm and we loaded Buddy up. After arriving at the station, I gave Buddy another brushing, put on his fancy leather show halter, and we strolled into the studio as calmly as we walked around our yard. Wow! Buddy and this proud country boy on the ‘Warren Hull Show’. The fifteen minute segment was a hit, except for Buddy depositing a couple of nice-sized patties on the stage. The hot lights must have made him nervous.
Spring followed a mild winter, and the day of the 4-H Steer Show loomed on the horizon. Buddy was in perfect shape, well behaved, and so tame I could walk him around the yard with no halter. When he tired, we’d stop under one of the large oaks, and he would lie down. Of course, I plopped and leaned against him and also relaxed. Buddy had become my twelve-hundred-pound pet.
Show day arrived. As the sun popped over the trees, Buddy was receiving a warm water bath, having his hoofs polished, tail fluffed, and slick coat combed. We took a short walk and practiced his standing, stopping, and turning. He passed with flying colors. Changing into my new, scratchy dungarees, boots, and shirt, I imagined Buddy receiving the Grand Champion trophy.
We arrived at the fairgrounds and joined the crowd of excited kids and steers. Buddy remained much calmer than I. Once he was tied to a section of fence, I again combed, polished, and detailed him again. “Buddy, we’re some team. Let’s show these folks a real champion.”
When I look back on that special day, I now realize all of the months of enjoyment and excitement had completely blocked the reality of what would actually take place after the parading and judging. There would be a sale, and then the highest bidder would purchase any steer they bid on. In most cases, the buyers owned high quality restaurants or meat markets. I’m very thankful these facts had remained secluded in another world and were not one of my daily thoughts.
The time came for us to enter the ring. Buddy performed flawlessly, making me the proudest 4-H’er in the county. He claimed First Place in the Hertford class, and finished Reserve Champion overall, losing to an old drab, Black Angus. Buddy sold for more per pound than the Champion, and was purchased by a fancy oceanfront restaurant. Even then, all of the reality of the situation still remained foggy to me…until the announcer said, “Contestants, please lead your steers back to the holding area. Make sure you collect your supplies and remove the show halter and replace it with a rope halter.”
As Buddy and I slowly walked to the fence, emotions washed over me like a tidal wave. My tears flowed while I switched halters. Buddy looked at me with those big, warm brown eyes, and then got in a quick lick. I hugged his neck as tight as I could and cried like a baby. Between gasps and sobs, I finally said, “Buddy, we made a great team. I’m going to miss you…but I’ll never forget you.”
That was forty-eight years ago. Even today, my hot tears burned my eyes as I tell the story about – ‘My Buddy’.