An Excerpt from A Heart for Baby

As the hours passed, I noticed the cows were not leaving their stall. I assumed that Hackel, once again, was denying them access to the pasture. His action irritated me, but it wasn’t long before I came up with a plan: “If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, then Mohammed must go to the mountain,” as I grabbed my container of treats and headed toward Hackel’s farm.

As I approached the stall, the farmer was nowhere in sight, for which I was grateful because Mama was making a fuss, and there was no stopping her except to dump the treats in the trough and let her enjoy them.

I snatched a few apples from Mama’s pile and fed them to Baby, but she seemed more nervous than usual, and I wondered if she sensed the farmer was nearby.

Or was it something else?

I stroked Baby’s face, and it was an incredible feeling to be close to her without worrying about the electric fence. However, the moment was short-lived when Hackel came motoring down the street wearing an obnoxious grin on his face.
He parked his tractor and went into the barn, aware of my presence, but in no hurry to come after me. I stood my ground, even though the apples and carrots were gone.

I knew that I was asking for trouble, but I needed an explanation on why he had locked the cows in the stall again — and I wasn’t going home until I got it.

Perhaps Hackel could not stand my presence, or he had finished his chores, whatever the reason, he strutted over to where I was standing with a cocky grin on his face.

“The cows get plenty of food — and they don’t eat carrots!” he said nastily, glancing at the plastic container.
I ignored his comments and continued to pet Baby, hoping he would go away and leave me alone, but I needed to find out about the locked stall as disagreeable as it was speaking to him. I looked him squarely in the eye and, with all the nerve I could muster, I asked him about the cows.

“Why did you lock up the cows again?” I demanded.

He grabbed a pitchfork and, without a word, tossed hay into their empty trough. He continued to work, ignoring my question but, strangely, not asking me to leave. After a few minutes, the situation became awkward, but I decided to wait it out.

When he had finished, he laid down his pitchfork and leaned up against the trough, resting his elbow on his knee. With little emotion, Hackel explained that he had to lock up the cows because Bully was going to be “picked up” tomorrow, and he needed to contain him in the stall. Even though I was new to the business of beef farming, I instinctively knew the words “picked up” were just a euphemism for “slaughtered.”

His words hit me like a brick wall — and I felt sick to my stomach.

“Why is he being picked up?” I asked, choking back the tears.

“One of the neighbors complained about his mooing,” he said coldly, without a hint of remorse.

I knew there was no use trying to dissuade Hackel from his decision. The tone of his voice left no room for negotiation, and I wasn’t prepared for this hideous outcome. With a heavy heart, I walked over to Bully, gave him one last pat on the nose, and then stroked the side of his face. He was very affectionate, and I would miss him deeply. I whispered his name one last time and walked away, sobbing uncontrollably. The tears poured like rain, but they didn’t compare to the sadness I felt in my broken heart.

To make matters worse, Bully let out one long, mournful moo as if to say goodbye, or was he pleading with me to save his life? I will never know. My only consolation was that Bully had enjoyed a better life because of my “meddling,” and he knew that he was loved.

As I exited the farm, I could hear the angry voice of Hackel yelling, “Go home!” Why was he so upset?

Suddenly, I understood. Perhaps my tears evoked a sense of wrongdoing on his guilty conscience. I wasn’t sure because, up to now, my contact with him had been limited. But one thing was for sure, whatever the reason, Hackel was sending Bully to his execution, and that made him my enemy, for there is no compromise in death.

The lines were drawn, and even though Hackel had dealt the first blow, the war was far from over . . .

Excerpted from A Heart for Baby by D.C. Danton Copyright © 2019 By Diana Hanselka. All Rights Reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author.