PAT JONES
Onlooker
It’s a blistering hot summer day. I can feel the heat of the steel as I grip the bars of the cramped dog cage tightly. The plaza is crowded. It’s lunchtime and people are eating as they peer down at me, watching as I try to pry the steel bars of my cage apart with my tiny fingers.
I’m guessing it’s nearing noon as the plaza is filling up with office workers hurrying across the square to one of the many food shops on the perimeter. Most simply pass by and say nothing, but others stop to watch. My cage is separated from the crowd by a rope line composed of twine taped to the top of a set of orange cones. The string and cones form a paltry makeshift barrier, but it is a mighty rampart I am desperate to cross.
My cage is tiny. I bump against the walls of the kennel as I pull at the padlock holding the latch shut, whimpering with frustration. The sun is beating down and like the bars of my cage the lock is getting hotter. I am grateful that the floor of my tiny kennel is covered with straw. I am kneeling, but the straw offers my knees and toes some amount of relief.
I will not waste time telling you about my elite education or my family fortune. I am 30 and quite wealthy--financially independent--unlike the rest of our group, which is comprised mostly of idealistic students from the local city college. I am not a local. I actually live nearly 100 miles to North in a condo that overlooks the water. But today my wealth and fancy education do not matter. Today I am an animal. Today I am ANIMAL X.
ANIMAL X began when a group of animal rights activists saved calf destined for slaughter. To raise public awareness it was decided that members of the group would take the animal’s place and dub themselves Animal X. The group stages public events where the group members are manhandled and branded like livestock with a large X to highlight the suffering animals endure in capivity. If it’s not right to prod, tie, beat, or brand humans, why is it right to do it to animals? It is a powerful argument, but the cold indifference of the crowd makes me wonder if the ANIIMAL X protest doesn’t reveal something far darker about human nature.
I discovered ANIMAL X almost a year ago during a search for human branding stories on the web. I don’t share the group’s obsession with their cause, but I was irresistibly drawn to ANIMAL X. I am not an animal rights activist--far from it. I enjoy a nice steak every now and then, a fact that would horrify my new comrades. And I would never give up my leather Louboutins or my Coach handbags. But I have powerful fantasies of enslavement and public humiliation and have often daydreamed about what it might be like to be treated like an animal. From the first time I saw one of the videos of their public protests, I knew I had to join ANIMAL X.
The crowd is a bit larger than organizers expected, about 300 people. It's mostly male, and I know the men are watching me. Most of the other “animals” being branded today are guys, but I’m a girl in a dog cage, wearing a bikini. And I am striking to look at too--no conceit on my part, just a matter of fact. My face, covered in freckles, is framed by shoulder length red hair. And my skin is very fair--almost porcelain white. At 5’10” and 120 pounds I am so slender that everyone can see my ribs as I hyperventilate in my kennel. But I am no stick. My bust and backside fill out my skimpy bikini; this ANIMAL X has enough meat on her bones to make her very interesting to those of the opposite sex.
The frat boys are certainly entertained. There are about a dozen of them. And several are wearing identical Greek letters on their shirts branding them as idiots from the same asylum.
"Branding". I shudder as the word invades my consciousness.
“Are they really going to brand her?”
“That’s what they say.”
"Why would she agree to that?”
“Don’t know, not very bright, is she?"
"I wouldn't buy her for her brains."
“I bet she chickens out.”
"Hope the pet store fixes her before they sell her, ‘cause I'd knock that little bitch up good."
Their conversation infuriates me, but my time is running out so I turn my attention to the lock.
To make things more interesting, Sam, my handler, made a deal with me. If I can get out of my cage and get to the other side of the rope I’ll be free. No further mistreatment, no branding. The rope line is only a few feet away...
When she suggested it to me, I laughed. I thought it was a game. It doesn’t feel like a game now. I realize that the promise is part of the process they use to turn me into an animal: frightened, scared, and desperate to escape. I understand the psychology, but that doesn’t make it any less powerful.
I desperately pick at the lock.
Since I'm female "livestock", female handlers will process me. Sam is in charge and Tanya will assist. Sam is a bit older than the others, a street cop who joined the force after two tours of Afghanistan with the Marines. Lean and muscular, she threw me over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes during practice.
Sam's tough, take-charge demeanor makes her ideal as a handler, but her earnestness in making sure I understood EXACTLY what I was agreeing to made me wonder if she was really tough enough to go through with it. I even teased her that it was too bad she wasn't Army, "since everyone knows the Army is way tougher than the Marines."
Sam laughed. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it, sweet pea. On game day you're going to be just another little piggy and I'm going to bring your ass to market. I'm warning you: I will hurt you. Hurting you is the point."
That morning when we had tested the equipment I had again goaded her about “being soft” and “a cupcake.” She smiled and said the group had discussed “my attitude” and had prepared “a special treat” for me and Tom, after the branding.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Something special, sweet pea. Something VERY special.”
“Bring it on,” I said, smiling back.
I watch as they open the cage door next to me and drag out Steve, or, should I say, ANIMAL X. Steve is strong, and resists, but they use the cattle prod on him, giving him a good jolt right in the ass. I shudder at the electrical crackle and his dreadful, piercing screen. The cattle prod does it’s job, stunning Steve and leaving him weak enough for his four male handlers, all wearing ski masks, to tie his hands and feet.
I watched grimly as they roughly drag him across the stone plaza by his feet to be branded.
Realizing I am next, I redouble my efforts to escape. I try to lift the latch. It goes up a bit, but the lock holds it in place. I try to shake it loose, but it is double welded--too strong for me.
I shake the bars in frustration. My cage door is being held shut by a tiny luggage lock, the sort of thing I might use on one of my Gucci travel bags. It’s metal, but it is worn and scratched, and some of the paint has chipped away. I know they have used this lock before at other protests, and I wonder how many other ANIMAL X's have tugged and pulled at it trying to gain their freedom.
I can't pull it apart. In desperation I put it in my mouth, irrationally hoping I might bite it off.
"Looks like she's found a new chew toy," one of the frat boys calls out.
“Don’t like the taste, little doggy? I’ll give you something better to suck on.”
"Yeah. Woof, woof! Suck on this!"
I see him grab his crotch. His buddies burst out laughing. Their laughter burns in my ears. I can't believe this is happening.
There are two policemen in the plaza, both friends of Sam's. They are not there to help me. They are there to make sure that my branding goes off without a hitch. I am on my knees so they look tall and intimidating; indeed, from my perspective in the cramped cage, everyone looks enormous. In their blue uniforms with their badges and guns, the officers look very official and lend an aura of legitimacy to the proceedings. But they stand aloof in their sunglasses, oblivious to my plight.
ANIMAL X brandings are designed to highlight our cold indifference to the treatment of animals. When violence against animals is protected by the sanction of law it becomes socially acceptable. Fair enough.
However I think the ANIMAL X brandings reveal something far more sinister. In a few minutes I’m going to be dragged out into the public square, where I will be gagged, tied, and branded in front of a crowd of “good” people. A couple of cops, some orange cones, and some cheap twine will be all it takes to make my branding entirely acceptable.
There is something about a mob, a diffusion of responsibility that makes the unthinkable perfectly acceptable. One person on their own might help me; as part of a crowd, that same person will do nothing to stop my suffering, no matter how great it might be.
You could argue that it is merely theater, but that doesn't explain the bulges in the male trousers, the look of smug satisfaction in the older female eyes, or the laughter of the frat buys as they gulp their beer and crack jokes as I desperately try to pick the lock open.
It is hot and I am sweating. A few yards away there is an open barrel the group put out so that people have something to dump their trash in. The garbage draws flies, and they soon find me. I feel them crawling on my back, legs and bottom, but my cage is too small for me to get my hands up and brush them away. I am disgusted, and resort to shaking like a dog to get them off. The flies soon return. I am helpless to prevent it. I resign myself to their presence and try to ignore them, letting them crawl all over me as they lick the salty sweat from my skin.
Thrashing around while sweating in the blazing sun is exhausting me. I am dehydrated. I can see people enjoying icy cold drinks and I envy them. A small metal bowl of tepid water is attached to the cage, but there are flies on the rim so I don’t drink. I’m also afraid I might pee myself when I’m branded if I drink anything. It happens, or so I’m told.
But I am so thirsty I decide to take a small drink anyway. I try to detach the bowl from the bars so I can use my hands to drink, but the bowl is bolted in place. Sam used a power drill and the screws are far to tight to loosen with my fingers. If I want to drink, I’ll have to stick my face in the bowl and drink it like a dog.
Giving in to my humiliation, I shake my long red hair to brush the flies away and put my face in the bowl. It is stainless steel, and the water is warm, but I drink it anyway.
“Suck it up, bitch,” one of the frat boys yells.
“Yeah. IF you don’t like that, I’ll give you something better to drink!”
Ignoring the college students I glance over my shoulder. Sam and Tonya and the other handlers are busy branding Steve. The rope line is only a few feet away.
My frustration is palpable. I could buy 100 of these cheap little locks with the proceeds from one of the bottles in my wine cellar. It seems preposterous that a crappy little two-inch loop lock can render me helpless, but try as I might, I can’t bend, pull, or chew myself free.
I taste tiny flecks of gold paint in my mouth. I realize now why the lock is scratched.
Across the plaza I hear a horrific, terrifying scream as Steve is branded. It is muffled, as they put a bit in his mouth to keep him from biting off his tongue.
They process Steve quickly. I am next.
I look around on the ground. Perhaps someone has dropped a paperclip or a bobby pin I can use to pick the lock. Perhaps I can find a toothpick, a safety pin, or something that might turn a tumbler. Maybe one of the drunken assholes have dropped the pop top of their beer, and I can chew it apart and…
I gasp as Sam and Tonya's scuffed black work boots appear in front of my cage.
It’s too late. It’s time.
The handlers are dressed in black and wearing black gloves, and black ski masks that cover everything but their eyes. It dehumanizes them, makes them more frightening, and robs them of their individual identity. Like the butchers and executioners of the world, they are faceless cogs, part of an elaborate machine devoted to processing, exploiting, and torturing the innocent.
Sam kneels in front of my cage. I don't look at her eyes. The key transfixes me. It’s tiny, less than an inch long, but I know it’s my salvation. She holds it up in front of me, taunting me with its closeness.
Without even thinking I push my fingers through the bars, trying to reach it. Sam pulls the key just beyond my reach.
So fixated am I by my attempts to reach the precious key I forget that the key display is actually a signal. As per our arrangement, I look down and locate the tiny buzzer hidden in the straw of my kennel cage. The buzzer is an essential safeguard. It is small, but if I squeeze it three times in rapid succession the buzzing will signal Sam and the others to stop. My safe word was FREEDOM, but if I’m gagged or too weak to speak I can use the buzzer. The buzzer will save me.
I pickup the buzzer and conceal it in my palm, nodding to Sam. She nods back, and unlocks my cage. Tensing myself, I get ready…
The instant she lifts the latch I push forward with all my strength. The rope line is five feet away, and I try to throw my body across it in an end zone dive. A hand, a foot, a finger… I put all my energy into getting any part of me over the line.
I don't make it. I don’t even come close. I feel the prick of the sharp prongs as Tanya pushes the cattle prod into my defenseless rump. It hurts, but I discover what pain means when she presses the button.
It is indescribable. Everything goes white as my mind clouds and my muscles spasm then go limp. Every inch of me is writhing in pain.
The cattle prod does its work. Stunned and disabled, four men lift me up and over my cage like a rag doll. Sam and Tonya hold my feet.
Unlike Steve they do not drag me across the cement they carry me. This might seem merciful, but it is not. Each animal’s demonstration is scripted after a careful discussion with his or her handler. I had repeatedly urged Sam not to hold back, to give me the works, daring her to do her worst even as I openly challenged her ability to do so. It was Sam who suggested that I be hogtied.
They don’t set me down; they simply let me drop three feet to the pavement. I land hard on all fours, scuffing my palms and knees on the unforgiving surface. Before I can react, someone stomps on my back shoving my face onto the pavement and collapsing me flat on the ground. The sun is blazing and the concrete feels like a hot griddle on my bare skin. They yank my hands behind my back and tie them tightly with coarse rope. My ankles are next. The knots are much tighter than they were in rehearsal. Tight is good. Things can get messy if an animal gets free during its branding.
Sam assured me that I would not get free, and Sam always keeps her word. I wince as the coarse, twisted rope digs into my wrists and ankles. The 3-strand manila rope they use is the strongest natural fiber rope on the market and is a favorite on farms because of its resistance to heat, sunlight, and stretching.
Sam learned to tie knots in the Marines. She works quick and fast. Although I know what is coming, I still feel a surge of panic as she slips the noose around my neck and pulls the knot tight. Sam threads the loose end of the noose under the rope around my wrists and ankles before doubling it back in a large loop which she cinches tight, forcing my feet skyward.
I let out a tortured scream as she puts her foot on my back and gives the rope a mercilessly hard yank jerking my head back and my feet and calves clear off the ground. The pain is so sharp that for an instant I fear she has snapped my neck. She was much more gentle in rehearsal. Is it the adrenaline of the performance or something darker driving her cruelty?
Sam tightens the noose around my throat. I feel like I’m falling through a trap door. After much gurgling and rocking back-and-forth I discover I can breathe if I lift my shoulders and knees off the ground and balance all of my weight on my breasts and belly.
Sam kneels down beside me. Is she going to loosen my knots, or adjust the rope around my neck to allow me to breath easier? No, she’s there to tag me.
Tanya grabs my ear, using it like a luggage handle to lift my head up to her knee. The pain is sharp and intense. For a moment I think my ear is going to come off. But the pain is washed away by a surge of fear as I feel the cold metal of the hole punch close against my ear lobe.
Sam had shown me the tool during rehearsal. It looked innocuous enough, an old, worn, metal belt punch, small enough to carry in your pocket, with an adjustable head for different sized holes.
"It will punch through a leather belt, so your ear shouldn't be a problem," Sam explained casually. "Leather's leather, after all, and it's not like your hide is any thicker than any other cow.”
My hide. The trainers always used animal terms when talking to or about "the livestock": my breasts were my udders, or teats, my bottom was my rump and my hands and feet were my front and rear hooves. It was supposed to make us identify with the animals. I certainly identified with them now.
Leather may be leather, but it is still a small hand tool she’s using. I can feel Sam summoning all her strength to squeeze the handles together, trying to push the dull metal punch through my ear.
The group prefers old, worn tools, similar to what one might find in a country rancher’s toolshed. The belt punch Sam was using didn’t have the easy-grip plastic handles of the new models. It had bare metal grips and was made long before plastic became popular. The punch was dull and rounded after years of use.
I now pay the price for Sam’s desire for authenticity.
I scream like a banshee as the punch penetrates partway through my ear lobe and then simply stops. Sam squares off and shifts her weight. She squeezes harder... Again... Again… I cry in anguish as each time the dull metal punch digs incrementally deeper. Adjusting her grip one more time, she finally gets enough leverage to finish the job. I sob as she lets go of my head and my face slams down onto the hot cement.
Wasting no time, Sam quickly threads the yellow plastic garbage bag tie first through the gigantic plastic X animal tag and then through the bloody hole in my ear. She works fast. She has other animals to process and a schedule to keep.
But the hole in my ear does not allow the main body of the tie to pass easily. Sam simply puts the sole of her boot on my head and yanks the plastic tie through my ear. Brute strength is her solution for pulling the yellow tie through a hole punched too small. The pain is excruciating as each tooth of the plastic tie is forced to twist and fold and cut on its way through. Soon the slack is gone and the tie is holding the enormous and humiliating animal tag tightly to my ear.
The tag has a day-glow pink frame and identifies me as a female. My X identification number is printed on both sides in bold two-inch HIGH IMPACT black font against a white background. I am hogtied, and the plastic tag flops comically against the left side of my face as I struggle to keep my shoulders off the ground and my feet high enough in the air to allow me to breathe. But it doesn’t matter. The print is large enough so everyone in the plaza can see that I’m ANIMAL X.
I’m guessing it’s nearing noon as the plaza is filling up with office workers hurrying across the square to one of the many food shops on the perimeter. Most simply pass by and say nothing, but others stop to watch. My cage is separated from the crowd by a rope line composed of twine taped to the top of a set of orange cones. The string and cones form a paltry makeshift barrier, but it is a mighty rampart I am desperate to cross.
My cage is tiny. I bump against the walls of the kennel as I pull at the padlock holding the latch shut, whimpering with frustration. The sun is beating down and like the bars of my cage the lock is getting hotter. I am grateful that the floor of my tiny kennel is covered with straw. I am kneeling, but the straw offers my knees and toes some amount of relief.
I will not waste time telling you about my elite education or my family fortune. I am 30 and quite wealthy--financially independent--unlike the rest of our group, which is comprised mostly of idealistic students from the local city college. I am not a local. I actually live nearly 100 miles to North in a condo that overlooks the water. But today my wealth and fancy education do not matter. Today I am an animal. Today I am ANIMAL X.
ANIMAL X began when a group of animal rights activists saved calf destined for slaughter. To raise public awareness it was decided that members of the group would take the animal’s place and dub themselves Animal X. The group stages public events where the group members are manhandled and branded like livestock with a large X to highlight the suffering animals endure in capivity. If it’s not right to prod, tie, beat, or brand humans, why is it right to do it to animals? It is a powerful argument, but the cold indifference of the crowd makes me wonder if the ANIIMAL X protest doesn’t reveal something far darker about human nature.
I discovered ANIMAL X almost a year ago during a search for human branding stories on the web. I don’t share the group’s obsession with their cause, but I was irresistibly drawn to ANIMAL X. I am not an animal rights activist--far from it. I enjoy a nice steak every now and then, a fact that would horrify my new comrades. And I would never give up my leather Louboutins or my Coach handbags. But I have powerful fantasies of enslavement and public humiliation and have often daydreamed about what it might be like to be treated like an animal. From the first time I saw one of the videos of their public protests, I knew I had to join ANIMAL X.
The crowd is a bit larger than organizers expected, about 300 people. It's mostly male, and I know the men are watching me. Most of the other “animals” being branded today are guys, but I’m a girl in a dog cage, wearing a bikini. And I am striking to look at too--no conceit on my part, just a matter of fact. My face, covered in freckles, is framed by shoulder length red hair. And my skin is very fair--almost porcelain white. At 5’10” and 120 pounds I am so slender that everyone can see my ribs as I hyperventilate in my kennel. But I am no stick. My bust and backside fill out my skimpy bikini; this ANIMAL X has enough meat on her bones to make her very interesting to those of the opposite sex.
The frat boys are certainly entertained. There are about a dozen of them. And several are wearing identical Greek letters on their shirts branding them as idiots from the same asylum.
"Branding". I shudder as the word invades my consciousness.
“Are they really going to brand her?”
“That’s what they say.”
"Why would she agree to that?”
“Don’t know, not very bright, is she?"
"I wouldn't buy her for her brains."
“I bet she chickens out.”
"Hope the pet store fixes her before they sell her, ‘cause I'd knock that little bitch up good."
Their conversation infuriates me, but my time is running out so I turn my attention to the lock.
To make things more interesting, Sam, my handler, made a deal with me. If I can get out of my cage and get to the other side of the rope I’ll be free. No further mistreatment, no branding. The rope line is only a few feet away...
When she suggested it to me, I laughed. I thought it was a game. It doesn’t feel like a game now. I realize that the promise is part of the process they use to turn me into an animal: frightened, scared, and desperate to escape. I understand the psychology, but that doesn’t make it any less powerful.
I desperately pick at the lock.
Since I'm female "livestock", female handlers will process me. Sam is in charge and Tanya will assist. Sam is a bit older than the others, a street cop who joined the force after two tours of Afghanistan with the Marines. Lean and muscular, she threw me over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes during practice.
Sam's tough, take-charge demeanor makes her ideal as a handler, but her earnestness in making sure I understood EXACTLY what I was agreeing to made me wonder if she was really tough enough to go through with it. I even teased her that it was too bad she wasn't Army, "since everyone knows the Army is way tougher than the Marines."
Sam laughed. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it, sweet pea. On game day you're going to be just another little piggy and I'm going to bring your ass to market. I'm warning you: I will hurt you. Hurting you is the point."
That morning when we had tested the equipment I had again goaded her about “being soft” and “a cupcake.” She smiled and said the group had discussed “my attitude” and had prepared “a special treat” for me and Tom, after the branding.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Something special, sweet pea. Something VERY special.”
“Bring it on,” I said, smiling back.
I watch as they open the cage door next to me and drag out Steve, or, should I say, ANIMAL X. Steve is strong, and resists, but they use the cattle prod on him, giving him a good jolt right in the ass. I shudder at the electrical crackle and his dreadful, piercing screen. The cattle prod does it’s job, stunning Steve and leaving him weak enough for his four male handlers, all wearing ski masks, to tie his hands and feet.
I watched grimly as they roughly drag him across the stone plaza by his feet to be branded.
Realizing I am next, I redouble my efforts to escape. I try to lift the latch. It goes up a bit, but the lock holds it in place. I try to shake it loose, but it is double welded--too strong for me.
I shake the bars in frustration. My cage door is being held shut by a tiny luggage lock, the sort of thing I might use on one of my Gucci travel bags. It’s metal, but it is worn and scratched, and some of the paint has chipped away. I know they have used this lock before at other protests, and I wonder how many other ANIMAL X's have tugged and pulled at it trying to gain their freedom.
I can't pull it apart. In desperation I put it in my mouth, irrationally hoping I might bite it off.
"Looks like she's found a new chew toy," one of the frat boys calls out.
“Don’t like the taste, little doggy? I’ll give you something better to suck on.”
"Yeah. Woof, woof! Suck on this!"
I see him grab his crotch. His buddies burst out laughing. Their laughter burns in my ears. I can't believe this is happening.
There are two policemen in the plaza, both friends of Sam's. They are not there to help me. They are there to make sure that my branding goes off without a hitch. I am on my knees so they look tall and intimidating; indeed, from my perspective in the cramped cage, everyone looks enormous. In their blue uniforms with their badges and guns, the officers look very official and lend an aura of legitimacy to the proceedings. But they stand aloof in their sunglasses, oblivious to my plight.
ANIMAL X brandings are designed to highlight our cold indifference to the treatment of animals. When violence against animals is protected by the sanction of law it becomes socially acceptable. Fair enough.
However I think the ANIMAL X brandings reveal something far more sinister. In a few minutes I’m going to be dragged out into the public square, where I will be gagged, tied, and branded in front of a crowd of “good” people. A couple of cops, some orange cones, and some cheap twine will be all it takes to make my branding entirely acceptable.
There is something about a mob, a diffusion of responsibility that makes the unthinkable perfectly acceptable. One person on their own might help me; as part of a crowd, that same person will do nothing to stop my suffering, no matter how great it might be.
You could argue that it is merely theater, but that doesn't explain the bulges in the male trousers, the look of smug satisfaction in the older female eyes, or the laughter of the frat buys as they gulp their beer and crack jokes as I desperately try to pick the lock open.
It is hot and I am sweating. A few yards away there is an open barrel the group put out so that people have something to dump their trash in. The garbage draws flies, and they soon find me. I feel them crawling on my back, legs and bottom, but my cage is too small for me to get my hands up and brush them away. I am disgusted, and resort to shaking like a dog to get them off. The flies soon return. I am helpless to prevent it. I resign myself to their presence and try to ignore them, letting them crawl all over me as they lick the salty sweat from my skin.
Thrashing around while sweating in the blazing sun is exhausting me. I am dehydrated. I can see people enjoying icy cold drinks and I envy them. A small metal bowl of tepid water is attached to the cage, but there are flies on the rim so I don’t drink. I’m also afraid I might pee myself when I’m branded if I drink anything. It happens, or so I’m told.
But I am so thirsty I decide to take a small drink anyway. I try to detach the bowl from the bars so I can use my hands to drink, but the bowl is bolted in place. Sam used a power drill and the screws are far to tight to loosen with my fingers. If I want to drink, I’ll have to stick my face in the bowl and drink it like a dog.
Giving in to my humiliation, I shake my long red hair to brush the flies away and put my face in the bowl. It is stainless steel, and the water is warm, but I drink it anyway.
“Suck it up, bitch,” one of the frat boys yells.
“Yeah. IF you don’t like that, I’ll give you something better to drink!”
Ignoring the college students I glance over my shoulder. Sam and Tonya and the other handlers are busy branding Steve. The rope line is only a few feet away.
My frustration is palpable. I could buy 100 of these cheap little locks with the proceeds from one of the bottles in my wine cellar. It seems preposterous that a crappy little two-inch loop lock can render me helpless, but try as I might, I can’t bend, pull, or chew myself free.
I taste tiny flecks of gold paint in my mouth. I realize now why the lock is scratched.
Across the plaza I hear a horrific, terrifying scream as Steve is branded. It is muffled, as they put a bit in his mouth to keep him from biting off his tongue.
They process Steve quickly. I am next.
I look around on the ground. Perhaps someone has dropped a paperclip or a bobby pin I can use to pick the lock. Perhaps I can find a toothpick, a safety pin, or something that might turn a tumbler. Maybe one of the drunken assholes have dropped the pop top of their beer, and I can chew it apart and…
I gasp as Sam and Tonya's scuffed black work boots appear in front of my cage.
It’s too late. It’s time.
The handlers are dressed in black and wearing black gloves, and black ski masks that cover everything but their eyes. It dehumanizes them, makes them more frightening, and robs them of their individual identity. Like the butchers and executioners of the world, they are faceless cogs, part of an elaborate machine devoted to processing, exploiting, and torturing the innocent.
Sam kneels in front of my cage. I don't look at her eyes. The key transfixes me. It’s tiny, less than an inch long, but I know it’s my salvation. She holds it up in front of me, taunting me with its closeness.
Without even thinking I push my fingers through the bars, trying to reach it. Sam pulls the key just beyond my reach.
So fixated am I by my attempts to reach the precious key I forget that the key display is actually a signal. As per our arrangement, I look down and locate the tiny buzzer hidden in the straw of my kennel cage. The buzzer is an essential safeguard. It is small, but if I squeeze it three times in rapid succession the buzzing will signal Sam and the others to stop. My safe word was FREEDOM, but if I’m gagged or too weak to speak I can use the buzzer. The buzzer will save me.
I pickup the buzzer and conceal it in my palm, nodding to Sam. She nods back, and unlocks my cage. Tensing myself, I get ready…
The instant she lifts the latch I push forward with all my strength. The rope line is five feet away, and I try to throw my body across it in an end zone dive. A hand, a foot, a finger… I put all my energy into getting any part of me over the line.
I don't make it. I don’t even come close. I feel the prick of the sharp prongs as Tanya pushes the cattle prod into my defenseless rump. It hurts, but I discover what pain means when she presses the button.
It is indescribable. Everything goes white as my mind clouds and my muscles spasm then go limp. Every inch of me is writhing in pain.
The cattle prod does its work. Stunned and disabled, four men lift me up and over my cage like a rag doll. Sam and Tonya hold my feet.
Unlike Steve they do not drag me across the cement they carry me. This might seem merciful, but it is not. Each animal’s demonstration is scripted after a careful discussion with his or her handler. I had repeatedly urged Sam not to hold back, to give me the works, daring her to do her worst even as I openly challenged her ability to do so. It was Sam who suggested that I be hogtied.
They don’t set me down; they simply let me drop three feet to the pavement. I land hard on all fours, scuffing my palms and knees on the unforgiving surface. Before I can react, someone stomps on my back shoving my face onto the pavement and collapsing me flat on the ground. The sun is blazing and the concrete feels like a hot griddle on my bare skin. They yank my hands behind my back and tie them tightly with coarse rope. My ankles are next. The knots are much tighter than they were in rehearsal. Tight is good. Things can get messy if an animal gets free during its branding.
Sam assured me that I would not get free, and Sam always keeps her word. I wince as the coarse, twisted rope digs into my wrists and ankles. The 3-strand manila rope they use is the strongest natural fiber rope on the market and is a favorite on farms because of its resistance to heat, sunlight, and stretching.
Sam learned to tie knots in the Marines. She works quick and fast. Although I know what is coming, I still feel a surge of panic as she slips the noose around my neck and pulls the knot tight. Sam threads the loose end of the noose under the rope around my wrists and ankles before doubling it back in a large loop which she cinches tight, forcing my feet skyward.
I let out a tortured scream as she puts her foot on my back and gives the rope a mercilessly hard yank jerking my head back and my feet and calves clear off the ground. The pain is so sharp that for an instant I fear she has snapped my neck. She was much more gentle in rehearsal. Is it the adrenaline of the performance or something darker driving her cruelty?
Sam tightens the noose around my throat. I feel like I’m falling through a trap door. After much gurgling and rocking back-and-forth I discover I can breathe if I lift my shoulders and knees off the ground and balance all of my weight on my breasts and belly.
Sam kneels down beside me. Is she going to loosen my knots, or adjust the rope around my neck to allow me to breath easier? No, she’s there to tag me.
Tanya grabs my ear, using it like a luggage handle to lift my head up to her knee. The pain is sharp and intense. For a moment I think my ear is going to come off. But the pain is washed away by a surge of fear as I feel the cold metal of the hole punch close against my ear lobe.
Sam had shown me the tool during rehearsal. It looked innocuous enough, an old, worn, metal belt punch, small enough to carry in your pocket, with an adjustable head for different sized holes.
"It will punch through a leather belt, so your ear shouldn't be a problem," Sam explained casually. "Leather's leather, after all, and it's not like your hide is any thicker than any other cow.”
My hide. The trainers always used animal terms when talking to or about "the livestock": my breasts were my udders, or teats, my bottom was my rump and my hands and feet were my front and rear hooves. It was supposed to make us identify with the animals. I certainly identified with them now.
Leather may be leather, but it is still a small hand tool she’s using. I can feel Sam summoning all her strength to squeeze the handles together, trying to push the dull metal punch through my ear.
The group prefers old, worn tools, similar to what one might find in a country rancher’s toolshed. The belt punch Sam was using didn’t have the easy-grip plastic handles of the new models. It had bare metal grips and was made long before plastic became popular. The punch was dull and rounded after years of use.
I now pay the price for Sam’s desire for authenticity.
I scream like a banshee as the punch penetrates partway through my ear lobe and then simply stops. Sam squares off and shifts her weight. She squeezes harder... Again... Again… I cry in anguish as each time the dull metal punch digs incrementally deeper. Adjusting her grip one more time, she finally gets enough leverage to finish the job. I sob as she lets go of my head and my face slams down onto the hot cement.
Wasting no time, Sam quickly threads the yellow plastic garbage bag tie first through the gigantic plastic X animal tag and then through the bloody hole in my ear. She works fast. She has other animals to process and a schedule to keep.
But the hole in my ear does not allow the main body of the tie to pass easily. Sam simply puts the sole of her boot on my head and yanks the plastic tie through my ear. Brute strength is her solution for pulling the yellow tie through a hole punched too small. The pain is excruciating as each tooth of the plastic tie is forced to twist and fold and cut on its way through. Soon the slack is gone and the tie is holding the enormous and humiliating animal tag tightly to my ear.
The tag has a day-glow pink frame and identifies me as a female. My X identification number is printed on both sides in bold two-inch HIGH IMPACT black font against a white background. I am hogtied, and the plastic tag flops comically against the left side of my face as I struggle to keep my shoulders off the ground and my feet high enough in the air to allow me to breathe. But it doesn’t matter. The print is large enough so everyone in the plaza can see that I’m ANIMAL X.
