Warrigal's Way by Warrigal Anderson

bones. “They get tallow, meat meal, and blood and bone,” Mike told me. “But you’re gunna have to work those out for yourself. I’ve got no idea what they use them for.”
    I’m watching a bloke with a big knife cutting the tongue out of the face of a cow. He looks bored and I feel a bit sick. I looked behind me just in time to see a bloke pull a big heap of runny guts and slimy stuff out of a cut he had made in the belly of a beast and drop them on a table at his feet. There was another bloke busy cutting a beast from neck to tail with a dirty big saw, and another couple of fellers with knives and a machine ripping their skin off.
    That was my lot. Fresh air and the pie that was sitting like a block of lead in my stomach came up and nearly knocked the back wall out of the urinal. But it made me feel better.
    â€œYou okay?” Mike asked.
    â€œYeah. Thanks mate. All that gore and slime, and the bloody stare of all those empty eyes. Man, I couldn’t handle that. To think I was lining up for a job. Christ, I was dumb.”
    Mike put his hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be right, mate. Just a matter of getting used to it. That’s where rump steak comes from.” He grinned. I thought, no wonder people eat vegies.
    â€œCome on, let’s get out horses and go and watch the dipping,” Mike said.
    â€œIs there any blood and guts?” I asked.
    â€œNah, just cows going for a swim.”
    Cows swimming. I had to see that. So we picked up our horses and rode down to a round yard full of cattle, dismounting outside the rails. We put our horses in a small yard with a trough, and Mike took their bridles off and hung them on the gate.
    â€œLet them pick a bit,” he said, and we walked over to where Artie was standing with a stick prodding those cattle who were a bit too shy to jump into a long concrete trough filled with green-coloured water. It was about eight feet deep, Mike told me. Sid was standing on a walkway above the trough, with a long pole with a bit on the end that fitted over the cow, and he pushed them right under with it. I asked Mike what he was doing and why he had to duck all the beasts.
    â€œCattle, dogs and sheep all get a thing called lice, and ticks, like this,” he said, and he bent down and picked up a horrible looking thing—grey with legs sticking out of a balloon body, that Mike says is full of blood sucked out of the host animal.
    He flicked the filthy thing into the green dip water. “That dip kills all sorts of things like that, and they have to push them under so there’s no place for the nasties to go. Come on, we’ll give them a hand.”
    We walked around the back of the mob, and waving our hats and yelling we gave the dogs a hand. It was a hell of a hullabaloo. Dogs barking, us yelling, and Arthur and Sid with shakers—tin lids with a hole drilled in the middle and threaded on a piece of wire bent to suit the hand and rattled while yelling. It sounded like a banshee picnic! We helped put that mob through. I don’t know how long it took, but I sure enjoyed it.
    â€œWell, come on, old mate. We better head home and seeif anyone’s back yet.” We put our bridles on and set off. I could still smell the greasy stink, but it didn’t make me queasy now, and I was even getting hungry.
    Mike told me that Arthur and Sid took charge of any cattle that came into the works and were responsible for their welfare right up until they got up the ramp onto the killfloor. “They do what they were doing today, dipping, or they might have to hold a mob that’s wormy, and drench them, then keep a close eye on them until they’re right. They feed out, raise orphan calves, and do everything a cocky running a farm does. It’s a big job.”
    We rode the rest of the way in easy silence and turned into our driveway. “Hey! Hugh’s back,” said Mike. “We’ll know what we’re