Bison Ranch

Massive heads dipping low to the ground, teeth cropping every last blade of grass, shaggy beasts that don’t hurry for anything, the giants have no need to move fast. I perched myself against the corral fence, holding my four-year-old son in my arms, he gazed, en rapt, by the lumbering beasts, but still clung to me, fearful of harm. Under a shade tree standing tall nearby lazed a massive and long-horned male, stretched without a care, chewing its cud, swishing aimlessly at flies with his tail. The big bull stared straight at the two of us, for his posture I saw he had no fear, he was the only bison truly safe, they used him to breed cows every year. Nearby those cows sat down in the dirt, no need to move about in the hot sun, but gangly caves with tawnier coats trotted ’round-and-’round seeking some fun. They were not the nicest smelling of beasts, their coats matted with old straw and dust, but you can get away with being filthy when you’re two thousand pounds and built tough. There are some other meat animals here, far out back six big elk took their stance, they’re tasty too, but to all nearby towns this has always been The Bison Ranch. Seeing our fill, we walked up to the store, which sold the meat, and western-themed toys, got a straw cowboy hat for my little guy, and for me? A huge chunk of strip-loin… We are eating steak tonight!