Years ago, I worked on a remote cattle ranch near Sasabe, Arizona. One Sunday afternoon, after a couple of drinks, my boss/friend, Jake; his girlfriend, Gayle; and I walked out to the corral. One of their mares was in heat and was due to be bred. A young stud from another ranch had been brought in. We walked to the paddock and sat on the fence.
The mare has been bred once before, but this is the stallion’s first time. The paddock is an oval, maybe 40 feet across. An ample space, it suits the mare just fine. She is placidly snuffling around in the dust hoping for an overlooked shred of alfalfa or oat. The young male is jumpy, provoked by the pheromone scent his consort sends forth. While she seems to have zero interest in him, the stallion is clearly obsessed with the mare and keeps pestering her. The first few times he walks toward her she merely moves away. But as his unwanted attentions increase, the mare’s irritation does, too. He tries his best to nuzzle her, to test her scent, to lick her haunch. She whirls to face him and bites a chunk out of his face; lots of bright blood streams down. He backs away, surprised and hurt. And yet, mere moments later, he is stalking her again. Once again he is bitten and kicked. She isn’t merely being coy; the kicks are deadly serious, designed to break a leg or rib. The sound produced when her shod hooves connect at full force with his gut makes us three humans wince.
This courtship drama—if we can call it that—goes on for another half hour or so, till the sun has gone down and the full moon is up. It’s getting cold. For the three of us perched on the fence, slightly drunk, the whole scene has a primal poignancy. You have to empathize with both the unwitting siren who, like Garbo, simply yearns for privacy, and the handsome young schmo in the grip of his lust. Jake, who grew up on a ranch and had seen this game played many times in his life, said, “The mare’s almost ready, and soon her behavior will change. When the chemistry’s right, she’ll abruptly stop fending him off. She’ll raise her tail and stand for it.” Those were the words he used. My buddy knew whereof he spoke. A couple of minutes more and she did just as he’d foretold, no longer insulting her suitor or driving him off. The stallion by now was confused, rattled, bleeding, and bruised. At first he was quite tentative, expecting to be hurt again. It took him a while to realize that something had changed—that he might actually have his way with her. Although, till then, he didn’t really know what “his way” was, he did his job with ardent energy.
They were both pawns in a deep, ancient game—something older and larger than they—without which they—or we—would not exist. Is anyone a victim here? And if so, aren’t there two? Are we all not perps, victims, and products of the mating game?
At last, having finished his time-honored task, the stallion dismounted and strolled to the side of the ring, just below where we sat. Then he rolled on his back with his legs in the air. (His version of an end-zone celebration, I suppose, though quite undignified.) He drew a deep breath, sighed, and lit himself a cigarette. The mare, quite stolid now, just looked on disapprovingly, reminding him that he really ought to quit, for the kids’ sake, if not for his own. He looked at her indifferently, then stood up, shook the fine dust from his coat, and walked away.