Little Joe by Sandra Neil Wallace Page A

And crickets. They didn’t even bother keeping quiet during the day anymore; it was just as hot at night.
    “Hindquarters,” Grandpa pointed out. “Calf posture’s real important.” He knelt down and leaned closer, examining the space between Little Joe’s feet as if he could measure the distance in his head. “Get ’em wide to form a rectangle with them other legs.”
    Eli poked the tip of the show stick in the fleshy fold between Little Joe’s toes to get him to move. Little Joe stepped a bit wider. Eli smiled.
    “Seems he likes being shown off,” Grandpa said, impressed by Little Joe’s stance. “He’s not fightin’ it. And he’s not fightin’ you.”
    The first time Eli tried the show stick a few months ago, Little Joe kicked at it, thinking it might be a fly or some other kind of biter. But Eli worked with the calf every day, prodding his toes and dewclaws lightly with the stick, then pulling it away real quick whenever Little Joe lashed out. Once the calf saw there was nothing to be afraid of, he stopped kicking and started listening to Eli.
    “A little too wide, Eli. Bring him back,” Grandpa said. “Remember—the halter tells him where to go. The stick tells him which foot to move.”
    Eli took the hook of the stick and jabbed Little Joe’s callused dewclaws with it.
Perfect
, he thought, keeping his gaze on the calf’s poll as he obeyed. Eli stroked Little Joe’s black belly. He’d gotten him perfectly lined up when Little Joe lunged forward, showing Eli the whites of his eyes as he stepped out of line. Eli looked around to spot the trouble. It was Tater. He’d found relief from the heat in a tractor divot the wheels had made in the muck.
    “No fair, Grandpa,” Eli moaned. “Tater spooked him!”
    Tater rolled around in the murky water. He splashed his tail and showed his black gums until he sneezed from being upside down too long.
    “That’s good,” Grandpa said. “Just like in a show ring.” He grinned. “Animals doing what they want, when they want. Getting into trouble. Behaving as they please.”
    Eli pulled the currycomb from his back pocket and brushed the drool off Little Joe’s neck. Then he scratched the calf s belly with the show stick to get him settled.
    “It don’t concern you,” Grandpa told Eli, folding his arms and walking in a semicircle around Eli and Little Joe. “It’s just the judge, you and Little Joe in that ring, far as you’re concerned. Now tap him on the nose with the butt of the stick. That’ll get him listenin’.”
    Spider walked under Little Joe while Eli was leading him around the ring. It didn’t seem to bother Little Joe. Expertly, the two moved together, Spider weaving in between the calf’s feet as he stepped a front hoof, then a back hoof, forward.
    “Keep half a cow’s length between you and them,” Grandpa ordered, pointing at Spider. “And if you go past the water tub, you’re out of the ring.”
    Eli held Little Joe back, waiting for Spider to trot away, careful to keep half a cow’s length behind her. She lay low instead, stalking a pair of gingerbread-striped kittens with her yellow eyes. Eli turned Little Joe around near the tub before Spider chased the kittens down the hill.
    “Good instincts, son. Always turn away from the trouble.” Grandpa clasped his hands. “I’d say you’re ready.”
    Eli wished he could show in his class right now.
    Grandpa got out the soft strip of girth tape and wrapped it around Little Joe. “Forty-six inches,” he called out, reading the tape measure. “Nice and meaty. I figure he’s seven hundred pounds, and that’s being modest.”
    Grandpa rolled up the tape, put it back in his pocket and smiled. “That’s what good breeding and green pasture can do to a calf. Looks like you’re both ready.” Grandpa hauled the tub of water and fed it to Little Joe. “There’s just one more thing I need to show you.”
    Eli couldn’t imagine what else he needed to learn about