On a Sunday in early February, Chris and I prepared to get Rubio, my young steer, from my farm to her homestead. A handsome burgundy, he was now almost seven months-old and 500 pounds heavy. We were both pleased: Rubio had been pasture-raised and freely milked from his mom; he would be going to small homestead to be a companion for her pregnant heifer, a budding family cow. We had become friends and exchanged some money. She hired an animal hauler to move him from here to there.

It had rained all week. We scheduled the truck to arrive at 10:00 a.m. on the one morning when the truck could drive across frozen ground, before it warmed and turned to slippery mud. I asked her to come early to get Rubio ready. She arrived with her three young children. We went into the barn and developed a plan as they played with the barn cat.

Rubio has a reserved, quiet nature; however, loading him onto a truck would be a foreign and potentially frightening experience for him. We could not predict how he would act. We did not have the strength to answer his strength, so our approach was to keep him relaxed. Chris, a midwife, exuded calm. I fed him alfalfa cubes while she gently looped a lead around his neck. We tied it to a railing, keeping it fairly slack. Chris stayed close to his head, while I went into the stall and patted him gently. She spoke to him softly and deftly moved the halter around his head and fastened it. All stayed quiet.

Fred's heavy truck bumped down my farm lane around 10:30 a.m. An enclosed heavy metal frame sat on the bed of the truck. I met two beefy men: Fred, probably sixty and wizened; Jackson, a bull of a man, the blush of youth still on his face. Jackson guided his grandfather to back up to the barnyard. They slid the truck's back gate sideways, dropped a heavy metal ramp onto the lip of the concrete pad, and attached and swung a heavy metal gate to the far side of the ramp. It was all bump and clatter.

With bravado, Jackson went into the stall, untied the lead, and led the steer toward the truck, “Okay, calf, come on!” When Rubio got halfway up the steep, ridged metal ramp, he dropped his front legs to his knees. Jackson pulled. Fred stood behind the calf, twisted his tail, pushed his shoulder into the calf. Rubio dropped a back leg off ramp into mud. Fred pulled a metal gate off the barn and put it on other side of ramp to create a chute. Jackson tied the lead to the truck, then came out and pushed against the calf's rump. He did not budge.

I climbed into the truck and pulled; Jackson pushed. Rubio began foaming at the mouth and breathing heavy; his eyes wild. We all stopped. I began singing his song, a lilting melody I often sang as I fed him, “ Rubio, rubio, ru bi o rue, Rubio, rubio, rue. “ He relaxed. “Get me some alfalfa cubes, “ I called. Fred handed me some. I put an alfalfa cube in front of his nose; he sniffed. Soon, his tongue reached out to lick the cube. “She sure knows what he likes!” exclaimed Fred. Rubio rose to this feet. I pulled the lead; Jackson pushed; Rubio walked onto the truck. Jackson and I stepped out of the truck, he closed the door, swung the ramp up and secured it. Off they went, leaving ruts in the wet ground.

Chris said later that her daughter had cried to see the calf handled so roughly. I wonder if Jackson had led the calf gently if our entire experience would have been easier. On farms with more cattle, farmers have a loading ramp for this purpose. I do not. We used the resources that we did have skillfully. Thanks to the men's heft and know-how and our attention and caring, we accomplished our goal. We did not just move meat (be it on the hoof), we moved with the moment; We developed our own wherewithal—our ability to assess and respond to the situation that presented itself. Chris's children got to see us struggle and ultimately succeed. She is involving her children in a rich experiential life. What is its value? Priceless, I say, priceless.