You should tug on a Dog’s throat when it acts up. 

Irene practiced telling herself that every day. No matter how cute it looks, how much it whines for more food, or how sorry you feel seeing its front paws scratch at its collar, Dogs, like all Livestock, need discipline. Mother would remind her of this often, wagging a finger with her strangely scarred hand; it was the first rule of having an animal, and she had to be a good Owner to keep it. 

Irene spent most of her young life wanting to be an Owner. Having the cutest little thing at your beck and call, never choosing someone else over you, would be the best. Sure, her father’s farm had all sorts of adorable animals, but they were all contracted under him. He made Irene share them with Tucker, the classic older brother who always gets his way. He would lure the Livestock away with meals and treats, so they would like him better. And he always made sure to rub it in Irene’s face. 

“But all you do is overfeed them!” Irene once shouted, stomping her foot. “I’m the one who bothers to groom them, clean their stalls, and change their nasty diapers!” 

“That’s why they hate you,” Tucker said, his wicked sneer as ugly as ever. “I just do what they beg me to do, and they worship me. Mother and Father will get me my own animal, and I’ll be treated like a king. You’ll still be stuck cleaning up shit.” Irene wanted to punch him so hard, it would send him flying through the window; she would imagine doing so every morning she passed it in the hallway. She’d have to remind herself there was no way Tucker would be an Owner before her, not treating the animals like that anyway. So, she’d go downstairs, walk right past the forbidden door Mother told them both to stay away from, and out onto the field where the Livestock moped around the spanning grass. She cleaned their stalls, organized their milk bottles, and brushed their hair and gums — firmly, but not too firmly so they’d hate her — and only gave them mushed-up treats when they were good, hoping her parents would notice. 

The only hard part was the discipline. Seeing those big eyes — all different shades of blue, green, and brown — tearing up as they dropped to their dirty pale or dark brown knees and curling into themselves was difficult. Irene knew it wasn’t easy being an Owner, but trying to resist something so sweet sounded impossible. 

The only time Irene saw an animal bleed was when she was bathing one of the Pullers. It was a cold Sunday night. She was lost in thought, spacing out over a handsome boy at church that wouldn’t leave her mind, before its paw suddenly flew to her chest and squeezed her left breast with its four fingers. Father ran into the room after hearing her screams; she had never seen anything bleed so much. Irene never saw it again after that. 

Her respect for Father only grew, but she could never see herself doing such a thing. The rest of them never acted half as badly as that one, so how could she ever raise a hand against them? Irene thought about it as she walked a Senile through the tall grass and sunflowers. She watched as it ate its way through the pasture, the sound of her brother’s gloating ringing faintly in her ear. Irene knew she needed to find a way to discipline the animals, or else Tucker would become more relentless than ever, if that was even possible. 

The Senile came to a sudden stop. “Charlotte?” Irene started. Tucker called it something different, but their mother would call it that from time to time, and she liked that name more. “What’s wrong?”

Before she could move closer, the Senile quickly lifted its leg and shoved it into her stomach. Irene stumbled back a little; there wasn’t too much force, but the fact that it even happened was enough to catch her off guard. Charlotte tried leaping up in the air, swinging its head around and flailing its legs about. Its empty mouth screeched and moaned louder than anything she’d ever heard. 

Trying to bury her heels in the dirt, Irene pulled on its collar. “What has gotten into you?” 

“Weh me go!” Charlotte screamed. “Weh me go! Weh me go!” 

Then, as the sun passed behind a bulging cloud, Irene saw the shadow turn Charlotte’s white, sagging face into the hardened, honeyed glare of the Puller from the bath. Irene’s eyes widened, and her reflexes moved for her. Her hand shot down to her waist, pulled out a baton, and began striking its dorsum. Charlotte thrust another back leg towards her. Irene narrowly avoided its naked, soiled paw and continued bashing the scarred, liver-spotted wrinkles of its back until the milky skin split and bubbled with blazing red. Blood spewed out and shimmered in the peaking light. Charlotte howled in defeat and collapsed against the grass, gore and pain flowing from its back. Watching it pant out heavy breaths, Irene lowered her baton and did the same. Wind rustled against the trees as the sun bathed them in glory. “Irene!” 

She whirled around and saw Mother rushing up to her. Her heart leaped into her throat; had she done something wrong? A faint touch of rising panic tickled her dark brown skin until she saw the bright smile across Mother’s face. 

“Oh, Irene! I’m so proud of you,” Mother exclaimed, picking her up and spinning her around. 

“Huh?” Irene said. 

“Your father and I have been so worried. We’ve wanted to give you an animal for so long, but we feared you couldn’t keep it tamed. But now look at you! I almost thought your grandfather had risen from the grave!” 

Mother sat Irene down and began leading her back into the house with the biggest grin she had ever seen. Irene admired it for a second before turning back towards Charlotte, who was still lying helplessly in the grass. “What about Charlotte?” she asked. 

“I turned the electric fence back on before coming out here, so it won’t be going anywhere. I’ll have your brother take it back to the stables.” 

Irene cocked her head, shooting a glance down at Mother’s scarred hand before looking back toward the house. “Will it be okay?” 

“Oh, sweetheart,” her gentle voice began, “It’s just a Senile. There’s nothing to worry about.”