Mark and Ring
I reckon I’ll wear that Shackeford brand ‘til the day I die. The burn’s healed now — the ‘SF’ sittin’ plain on my hide for the world to see.
Lord, I hated that heavy nose ring. Couldn’t eat right, couldn’t drink proper… couldn’t even breathe without feelin’ the pull of iron. The bulls seemed to like it, hangin’ there shiny as a coin, but I sure didn’t.
Never thought the boss’d hear my beggin’, but one day he did. Loosened the ring, let me take it out myself. First clean breath I’d had in months — and I didn’t know whether to cry… or laugh.
