Hauling Hay with Grace
Sometimes, the consequences of a person’s decisions don’t appear for a long time.
Sometimes, they rear their ugly head right away.
Sometimes, 20-20 hindsight doesn’t change a thing.
I made a deal to buy hay from a neighbor who has a field about 5 miles away.
Another neighbor who has a semi-truck agreed to haul it.
As with most hay deals, I agreed to pay by the ton so I needed to weigh some of the bales.
We had big square bales and round bales from the first cutting of alfalfa, plus round bales from the second cutting.
The local elevator in Conrad doesn’t mind a random truck and trailer crossing its scales.
Yet, semi drivers try to avoid the narrow streets of Conrad if possible – the streets seem to contract as soon as they hear a diesel engine approaching the single stoplight.
I was happy to haul a couple of loads across the scales with my pickup and trailer, extrapolate my payment and write a check.
I loaded my dog, Grace, into the back seat and headed to the field.
Grace rides with me to settle her nerves. Mine, too.
My daughter, Abby, and I are her third owners in three years.
She shares her abandonment anxiety by barking.
My ears demand she avoids abandonment anxiety.
Grace likes to chase sticks, too, constantly bouncing like Tigger in anticipation of another throw.
I am no longer a fan of Tigger.
She sleeps on my bed every night, crossing my lifelong boundary without a care. But she keeps me warm as she snuggles into my legs.
The first load made it on to my trailer, across the scales and up my half-mile driveway.
No problem.
As I watched my neighbor load the second load, I noticed my tires were mashing into the dirt. I had plenty of air in them, but these bales might be a bit heavier.
I drove slowly, giving Grace more time to offer to clean my ears.
The scale attendant gave me the weight, then stepped out to check my tires.
Each bale was 600 pounds more than the last load.
But I was in town, with no way to drop off a couple of bales.
Grace and I eased down my gravel road.
I was checking for traffic before I opened my ranch gate when I heard the pop and saw rubber scatter.
No problem.
I would unload these heavy bales at my haystack near the county road instead of taking them to the house stack.
Easy peasy.
I let Grace out to sniff around while I began unloading.
I didn’t hear the truck coming down the county road, just saw Grace perk her ears and go into hunt position.
“Grace! Get back here! Come!” I yelled.
I watched her jaws snap at the front wheel, watched her body fly into the air.
Disbelief.
Then an instant of hope – maybe it was only a glancing blow.
I held that hope all the way through the thump of the rear wheel.
Hope dissolved as I scampered out of the skid steer, eyes on Grace’s limp body.
No movement.
Glazed eyes.
The people in the truck jumped out, already apologizing.
“This was not your fault,” I said. “There was nothing you could have done differently.”
The man lifted Grace into my truck bed.
As I dialed to call Abby with the news, I thought about all of the forks in the road, all of the quick decisions I made that led me to this phone call.
I wondered how many times I had avoided this, yet never known.
I thought about how empty my bed would feel tonight.