Gerald looked up at the sky, wiping his hands on his overalls. The rain is coming again. It will be arduous, and the crops will probably fail. However, after that comes the season of plenty. The crops will grow.

   They’d better.

   Marcus, his son, walked along carrying two milk buckets. They exchanged glances.

   “Come here,” Gerald said, taking off his tattered Stetson and dropping it on the porch beside him. “We have to talk”

   “I’ve got to get the milk over to the…”

   “Don’t worry about that,” Gerald took a seat in one of the cork chairs on the porch. “Sit.”

   Marcus put the milk down and sat down in the chair beside his father. For a few moments, they peered at the fading sun in the sky.

   “Carlos isn’t doing well,” Gerald said. “Not at all.” His gaze dropped to the boards below him. They had not withstood the test of time well, nor had he. In the morning, he had examined the bald spot that was spreading on his crown and the receding grey mop of hair that remained at the front. Even his eyes looked tired. I am tired. So, so tired.

   “He’s not doing that bad,” Marcus said. “We took him to the rodeo last month and he did his job with aplomb!”

   Gerald smiled, staring at the porch. His son already knew more words than he had managed to acquire throughout his entire lifetime. I am so proud of him, he will know more than I will ever know.

   The smile faded.

   “Son,” Gerald said. “He’s getting too old.”

   “He’s fine,” Marcus said with a wave. “He’ll…”

   “Listen,” Gerald leaned back in his chair. “He’s getting old. Carlos doesn’t run like he used to. You were off to that foolhardy university when I got him, you didn’t see him. He used to be able to kick so hard. Now, it’s not the same. He doesn’t even run like he used to.”

   “What are you trying to say?” Marcus said. A look of worry spread across his face.

   “We’re going to put him down.”

   Marcus grew pale. “No.”

   “This is my farm,” Gerald said. “We do things my way. I said we’re going to put him down and that’s what we’re going to do. More so, I know you’ve never killed anything before and I think it’s about time that you do it. You’ll never be able to understand what it means to live until you’ve taken something away from this world.”

   “That’s bullshit!” Marcus yelled. “Fucking bullshit!”

   Gerald, despite his age, reached across and smacked the boy, lightly, on his cheek. “Don’t tell me what is bullshit and not. Your little history degree didn’t teach you how to respect your elders, did it now?”

   Marcus wiped the side of his face, over-exaggerating.

   “Now, you’re going to do it. I’m going to get my gun. You put one right between the eyes. You’ve watched enough movies to know that one, haven’t you? Wait here.”

   “This is not right,” Marcus muttered.  “Not at all.”

   “Nothing ever is,” Gerald said, entering the house.

   Melinda was quiet– like she always was. Gerald stopped in the living room and stared at her. The woman that he once loved was now nothing more than a shadow of her former self. Dementia is a cruel disease. It robbed her of everything. During most days, she gazed idly at the television. She had long ceased to talk and had to be clothed, bathed and fed by either Carl or Gerald. It was one of the reasons that his son had come back home.

   “Love you,” Gerald whispered, passing by her with tears in his eyes. He could not stay for long. It hurt him to do so.

   He went to his study and grabbed the rifle from its hiding spot. Gerald loaded it with precision. It had been his father’s rifle and he took good care of it. It was in pristine condition.

   When he came back to the porch, Marcus was looking out at the horizon.

   “It’s going to rain,” he said.

   “I know.”

   They walked to the barn. The fields were aplenty, but they had not harvested fully. Hard times had arrived.

   When they were near Carlos, Gerald aimed at the bull’s head. “You aim with the sight-lines here,” he pointed. “Do not get too close. I know that Carlos is old, but that does not make him any less dangerous. If he moves, he’s going to get startled and that’s not going to be good for the other animals. When you are ready, you pull the trigger,” he put a finger on top of it, but did not pull it. “Do you understand?”

   Marcus nodded.

   “Now, take a moment and then do the job. It needs to be done whether it is right or wrong.”

   Gerald looked up at the clouds. He was reminded of how he used to spend all day with his school friends, pointing out the various things that they saw. It was as if all hopes and dreams were above them, floating by, just beyond arm’s reach.

   He looked back at his son. Marcus’ arms were trembling. Gerald brought an arm up and steadied his son’s shoulder. “Don’t think about it but look him in the eyes. Say goodbye in the only way he’ll understand.”

   When he let his arm fall, Marcus fired. Carlos wavered and then slumped over to the side.

   A single tear fell from Marcus’ cheek.

   It began to rain.

– Daniel St-Jean

Author’s Note: “Carlos the Bull” is a metaphorical investigation of death on a key animal and, on the reverse sad, a household member. The truth reveals itself from eye to eye.