Over
A Bowl Of Potato And Corn Soup, Mr. Marvin Tells Me How He Castrated
Baby Goats. - for Marvin O'Neal I assume they call 'em kids on account of their scream. That sound doesn't let your mind
wander. My brother would cut them, I didn't have the stomach. I'd hold them-- brace my knee on their necks, wrap up their bodies in my arms. There'd be twenty or thirty of 'em and we go right down the line, next, next. He'd push up on their guts with his palm so he could grab hold of the sac, they'd try to retract them up, if you know what I mean. Taking the knife like this, so the blade follows his index finger,
he'd slice one, careful not to cut his own hand, and the nut opens up, folds inside out, and the goat would kick a little, and make this sound. My brother would pull the testicle down so to cut through the last membrane holding it to its body. Of course, the nuts just go flying; by the time we're done, we got nuts here by the door, by the walls, under our feet, nuts everywhere. The problem is keeping the dogs away from all those
nuts before we get a chance to clean 'em
up. The next day, we'd walk through the herd, and all them baby goats wouldn't move too fast,
barely pick up their legs. It was like stumbling through something you’ve done, had to
do, would do again. |
