George...

Sniffing the moist, hot air, I pause. I quietly survey my surroundings as the unrelenting sun beats down on my shoulders. Satisfied there is no immediate threat to my person, I stalk forwards, angling towards the far cooler paddock in Deer Farm's cattle yards. The grass is long and thick. Memories flash as I pass the burnt-out stump where a Red Belly Black used to reside. I quickly stride over to the yarding fence, climb up it a ways, and then shuffle along a few metres. The snake, though long dead by now, will have trouble getting me up here.

We have been here a while. Too long. Precious minutes were wasted ensuring the 'squeeze gates' were operational. The rust was thick. Many cans of Innox would only have been wasted. Better to use muscle and force the issue, then throw precious dollars down the drain.

We quickly close in. One is tall. Lanky. Stirry. I narrow my eyes in concentration. Best not to turn our backs on this one. The other is large. Hefty. Docile. He is the one we're here for. Best to take them both, as the one cant be trusted. The tall grey feints, pulls back, feints again. The poly pipe feels sturdy in my hands. It makes me feel powerful, when there is no power to be had. I bluff him, and he bolts down the laneway.

Perfect.

Dad slams the chute gates closed as he passes each one. Four in all. As he's doing this, I turn to the other. He is ponderously slow. Does he know what's coming? I take him for granted and swing into the lane behind him. He balks. Spins around. I leap for the rails again. Cat-like reflexes. He thunders past me, then finds he has no where to go. I move to the rear of the cooler paddock and try again. By now, Dad has released the tall one, but still doesn't take his eyes off of him. We've had trouble with him before.

Dad joins me as I make another push to get the fat one in the lane way. Again he balks. Its so hot. Is he doing this on purpose? I manage to swing a secondary gate shut, trapping him in a 5-way round yard. Again we push, and he surges down the laneway.

Dad repeats the process of shutting the slam gates. The obese one, otherwise known as George, lumbers into the crush, unaware, I think, of what's to come.

We pause.

Give ourselves a chance to breathe.

Dad opens the head bale, expecting George to barrel through. Nothing. Inside, I'm sure George is laughing at us. The squeeze gates are useless until we get his head clamped. I feel frustrated. It is hot. It is so hot. We proceed to entice George. Less carrot. More stick. He is as stubborn as he is passive.

With a sigh, Dad locks the head bale open. George knows. He rushes. Makes it through, unmolested. With his escape, Dad closes the head bale. What was once freedom is now a trap as George is now confined in the final captive space before the open paddock. With a knowing grin, we look at each other. I pass Dad the California Bander. In seconds, it is done. George had plenty of girlfriends in his paddock. He should have stayed there, instead of visiting the neighbour's heifers. He brought this on himself.

Now he will be fattened up as a steer!