Keeping an Ox alive

A short story by Pamela Vanderwoude

Keeping an Ox alive

An ox will work until it collapses if allowed to. Foley knows this as he steadies the traces around Biscuit's sides. They have both gathered sweat beneath their clothes as the heat of the day wears on, pricking them in unrelenting strokes. Biscuit's clothes weigh more, a leather harness, a yoke and a plough for good measure. The sweat foams up in white streaks on her sides where the black tack ties her to the plough. “There now, Biscuit, time for quitting,” Foley says, as the orb of the sun turns a fire red. The old man appears, loping in on the lame mare, Goldie. Foley winces with her as her sore hooves humble themselves in the dirt to bring the old man closer to the ox and Foley. He cannot bear the disturbing cadence of the sore hooves. “You might want to lay off Goldie. I saw maggots near her hoof the other day.” The old man says nothing, just shucks a spitball that sails past Foley's ear. 

“She got a workload to do. So does that old ox. Get another row done before quitting.”

He turns Goldie back to the barn. Foley notices he is walking her now though. Biscuit stretches her neck, divining for something green in the turned soil. Her bunched muscles have smoothed and the sweat foam is settling into matted salt streaks on her skin. Foley has no heart to start her again, but he clucks her back into motion — one, two, three — and with a mighty heave she moves, pulls with a singular might that strikes awe in Foley's heart. When the row is done and the sun mirrors the beginning of the moon, Biscuit and Foley head back to the barn. She has been freed from the bridle and the bit, plodding along with the hardware swinging around her neck, finding her way back to her stall. Foley scatters hay and feed, sees Biscuit is steaming again just from the walk back to the barn. Her spatula shaped hooves buckle slightly as her neck lowers to her tuck. Foley spies a paintbrush hanging on a nail, the tips dried out from old creosote, stiff and scratchy. He dips it into a pail of water and starts to paint Biscuit with the cold water, paying special attention to the valley between her ears. Biscuit sneezes in delight from the tickling of the brush. She will live another day. 

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Read another flash fiction by Pamela Vanderwoude here: