Ears.
Manure.
Appetite.
Skin.
Breathing.
Udder.
Feet.
Otto had one rule he repeated more than any other.
“Look at the udder before the face.”
Silas once asked why.
Otto had said:
“The face can lie when she’s scared.”
Then he pointed toward Clover.
“The udder doesn’t care who’s watching.”
Silas did not understand everything his grandfather meant.
But he remembered.
Then Otto had the stroke.
Silas was six.
One morning his grandfather had been standing beside the kitchen sink complaining that coffee had become too weak.
That afternoon he was in a hospital bed unable to move the right side of his body.
Words disappeared.
Not all of them.
Enough.
A man who had spent his life giving short instructions suddenly had even fewer available.
Silas sat beside him during hospital visits.
He watched Otto’s face twist with frustration when a sentence would not come.
Sometimes the old man would lift his good hand, make a gesture, and wait.
Ruth became skilled at interpreting.
Silas became better.
“Cow?”
Otto would ask.
“Clover’s fine.”
“Feet?”
“Fine.”
“Eat?”
“Everything.”
Otto would nod.
Those were conversations now.
Silas began keeping a notebook because he wanted something longer to bring his grandfather.
Ruth gave him the green one for his seventh birthday.
At first the entries looked like this:
Clover ate slow today.
Clover stood by gate all morning.
Rain tomorrow maybe.
Front right hoof chipped.
Eyes bright.
Otto loved it.
He would read the pages slowly.
Sometimes point.
Sometimes grunt.
Sometimes manage one word.
“Good.”
That single word became more valuable to Silas than whole speeches from other people.
The week before the Ferris auction, Ruth brought home the sale flyer.
She sat at the kitchen table reading the listings aloud mostly for herself.
Dispersal sale.
Forty dairy animals.
Older farmer retiring.
Several young cows.
Some bred heifers.
A handful of older Jerseys.
Otto sat nearby in his chair.
When Ruth read the name of the seller and location, Otto’s head lifted.
Ruth continued reading.
Otto struck the arm of his chair with his good hand.
Once.
Then again.
Ruth stopped.
“What?”
Otto pointed at the flyer.
Then Silas.
Then the flyer again.
Silas looked at him.
“You want me to read it?”
Otto shook his head.
He forced out one word.
“Go.”
Ruth frowned.
“Go where?”
Otto pointed again.
Auction.
Silas understood before Ruth did.
“You want me to go?”
Otto nodded.
Ruth immediately said:
“No.”
Otto looked at her.
“Absolutely not.”
Otto pointed.
“Go.”
“He is eight.”
“Go.”
“You can’t even pretend that’s a complete argument.”
Otto hit the arm of his chair.
“Go.”
Silas looked between them.
Ruth folded the flyer.
“You have no business at a cattle sale alone.”
Otto pointed at her.
Then Silas.
Then made a driving motion.
Ruth stared.
“You want me to take him?”