Bar C Publishing and Distribution.

My husband had gone hunting, muzzle loading season had finally opened up in Kansas, so he disappeared and I was left to feed the bulls, check the few cows that are due to calve sometime this fall and feed all the dogs. Not a lot to do, but I always procrastinate and feed the bulls sometime after dark.

The bulls respond to the rattle of a feed bucket just as Pavlov’s theory states. They are also conditioned to come to the feed trough when they hear the gate squeak on its rusty hinges as it opens. Nothing was any different this night; accept I had chosen to take a flash light with me. I was impatient, so I called to hurry them, the bulls lowed in response, they were across the other side of the creek.

I panned the flash light to see if they were coming. They lowed again, they were getting closer, then the light reflected a gleam from their eyes, sometimes they shone red other times they seemed yellow. One eye, occasionally two reflected back at me from the shadows, the black bodies of the bulls were completely concealed. It seemed the eyes danced in the darkness like specter’s floating in the ethereality. The dew drenched grass was parted or crushed beneath muffled footfalls; the quiet star lit night reminded me of Halloween, ghosts and the after life.

The four bulls happily buried their faces in the feed bunks and the apparition of yellow and red eyed specter’s disappeared, as appetites were satisfied and imagination returned to reality. The soaked grass wet my leather boots as I retreated, closing the squeaky gate behind me. An owl hooted in the distance, my cat arched his back and gave my leg a contemptuous flick of his tail, looking up at me his eye’s glowed yellow in the darkness, yet my flashlight was turned off, Halloween refused to be ignored and the darkness beckoned.