Not decorating the label of an aluminum can, not forced to the altar consecrating the new Temple in Jerusalem, not riding a cattle car to a meeting with the automated slaughterhouse hammers, but standing on a grassy slope at the twisty end of the avenue known as El Toro, which speakers of Spanish know means “The Bull”. He’s in his place. His pizzle hangs from between his haunches as he munches on long ryegrass and eyes the red cows which lean against the barbed wire fence, spread across a corner. The day scrubs him with a mix of sunlight and smog. He does not care because he has his cows and he has his grass confined to his corner of the sloping pasture. If the rain pelts him, he still can eat and copulate. The bull has all he needs. And he will not fall to his knees in the slaughterhouse soon.