The saddest duty in ranching is a monstrous act of mercy. Shooting a downed cow to put it out of its misery before buzzards begin their gruesome job while she is still alive. The one yesterday was especially poignant. She was the first and the last of our three longhorns purchased as pasture ornaments.
A cull at the auction, her pedigree was By Truck out of Dallas. My Dad bought her in 2005 for a mere $265, just for her horns which had the Texas Twist. She was probably about ten years old then and so skinny I named her the Sandwich Longhorn. She only had enough meat on her to make one sandwich.
Our rough old cows pushed her around until she got some flesh on her and she figured out that she had horns and they did not. After that, the little longhorn became a leader, a bell cow albeit without a bell. That was 15 years ago. She had a calf every year except 2018 then surprised us a month ago with yet one more calf.
We were in the process of building a brush pile to burn when my ranch hand spotted her down in some thick yaupon. For years I had planned on having her horns mounted and now mulled over whether to shoot her in the skull like we normally do. That would leave a bullet hole in the mount, but I decided that would be part of her story. I stuck a shovel in the ground about ten yards from her and used it to steady my hold on the .270. Her head dropped straight down then listed over onto one horn.
The Mahindra dragged her out in the open. The Wicked grapple lifted her with a chain around those horns to a convenient height for severing her noble head. Then carried her body to the top of what would now be her funeral pyre.
The famous Sportsman's Memory Shop agreed to do the honors. They are not great horns, but they will be an enduring reminder of part of our family history.
Rest in Peace, Sandwich Longhorn.
