ABSTRACT
Big Papa drove Harley to the stockyards in the elder's ancient pink Cadillac, which reeked of sweltering cow dung. Mashed peanut shells clung like devil's claws to the driver's side carpet. "Portales peanuts is the best," Big Papa boasted, shoving a handful toward Harley's belly. When grandpa and grandson arrived, Big Papa led his grandson to the catwalk. They climbed its steps and began to stroll above the indifferent heads of cattle awaiting sale. Harley tried to walk smoothly, imitating Tilly's gait when sneaking up on afield mouse. But the heel of his boot kept snagging on splinters or sticking in the cracks between the planks. More than once Big Papa was left with Harley dangling in his hand like a sack of chicken mash.
