A Calf I Named ShitBox

I work on the family dairy farm for my father, who delegated authority to me.
Over the lockdown, he asked me to cull the herd, especially for new borns, since we couldn't afford the extra feed.

We used to deal in veal calfs, but we now subcontract the collection of new born males to a third party. So we had one sprining heifer (name for a cow who is having her first calf) give birth to a mostly black, brown eyed Holstein calf.

This heifer was a **; she would ram the gates, and once my leg ended up stuck in the gating system and I was out of work for nearly three months; fortunately, this was a family ran farm, or I wouldn't have been paid.

As she spit out her calf, after the first couple of licks, I took him away from her beneath the paddock bars in retaliation for the attack. The cow bleated for her child return and resumed her gate ramming shenanigans.

This calf, ShitBox, trembled while still covered in his mother's afterbirth, so I left the mother to worry for her son, and when I returned, the calf had just learnt to stand.

I kicked it in the ** flat out onto its face into some other cows ** in the corner and it tried to stand again, this time I booted him in the thigh causing him to give out a painful bleat, so I grabbed his head and rubbed into the feces so the ammonia burns his eyes.

When I returned from other farm duties an hour later, the calf was standing at the gate, trying to reach his mother, who was calling him over.
When I walked inside the barn, the mother went insane, as if she knew what was going to happen.

I'd brought my boxing gloves, and as soon as I put them on, the calf tried to lick them. I led him astray by giving him a false sense of security, and then I hit the calf in the face, forcing it to fall on its hide legs and do the spilts.

The calf began bleating again, this time in anguish. I began pounding the calf in the stomach till it began coughing up blood and this yellow excrement. I though the thing would die so left for lauch and came back hour or so later.

Shitbox was standing at the gate once more, trembling and pleading for his mother's milk. This time, the bleating was low and laboured, as though drawn out, and those eyes had undoubtedly swollen due to the irritation.

I could tell he was hungry because the calf licked the bars on the fence like it was a teat. That promised luscious milk his mother had prepared for him was not going near this eager tongue.

I launched another frenzied attack at the calf, and this time he cowarded backwards. When I stormed at him and booted him in the face with my size 9 steel-capped boots, the calf wailed out and tears welled up in its eyes.

It felt good to exact retribution on this garbage by-product, while his mother could only stand there and weep for her POS offspring. The tail was up next; if you twist it and pull up and back, you will break it, causing extreme pain, which is exactly what I did.

When I heard the grinding of the tail vertebrae, the calf raised its head, mouth open as if he couldn't catch its breath, face stretched out as if sucking in air.

I knew the calf was in a lot of agony, so I pulled it around the corral using its tail as a lead, ripping the delicate tissues around its joints. The calf shrieked when it remembered to bleat.

So I thought I'd had some fun with the cattle prod next, but first I doused the calf in ice water, then I pushed the prod deep into his ear and shocked it for a good 30 seconds and it's body stiffened up, its legs out stretched, and its face completely messed up, and I thought I'd killed it when it didn't move after.

I booted Shitbox, thinking, dang, that's it for the day's entertainment.
So I left it on the floor and went about my routine before my oldman returned.

Shitbox had returned to the fence, pleading for his mother's affection and nourishment again!. Shitbox hobbled to the corner on wobbly legs, trembled against the wall, and ** himself in the terror. Then I grabbed the broom and drove the handle hard into Shitbox's **, and Shitbox shierked like I'd never heard any calf before, the handle went in deep.

When I eventually got it out of his **, there was a tidal wave of what could only be described as a gushing of blood and feces, followed by a major prolapse. ShitBox dropped to the floor, its legs splayed out in all directions, attempting vainly to lift its head. I had no sympathy for it. I happy it was suffering, and I was happy it was starving.

Shitbox never stood up again after the assault; I dragged him away from the corner by its hind legs, certainly inflicting more misery, so I could see the expression on its face, and man, it was hilarious; its snout hung down, revealing its milk teeth, and it swayed its head side to side, probably in state of shock.

Shitbox was probably going to die soon, so I unzipped my pants and ** all over its face, aiming inside his mouth as he swung his head around.
I stomped on his front leg after zipping up until I heard the bones crack.

Shitbox slipped into a trance, his skull banged on the floor, and he just lay there moaning out. So I left the barn and returned the next morning to find Shitbox still on his stomach and alive, his back legs having pulshed themselves beneath the lower bar of his pen and over to his mothers, who was now trying to nurse him.

Because the calf couldn't even stand, let alone suckle milk, I laughed, and the mother became hostile before I could open the gate, forcing it shut to keep me out. I felt it would be more fun if I took the hose and sprayed her in the nose, forcing her back, then I grabbed my fiber-rod and began striking her senseless across the face till she collapsed like a sack of potatas.

When I approached Shitbox, the mother yelled out, and I could hear her frustration and grief in her bleat. Shitbox just gave up, he laid there not moving, he uttered a few final bleats to mother, I like to assume he was saying goodbye to her, and I hauled him back out by his broken leg while the mother struggled to stand.

All shitbox could do was blink and twitch away, he was completely dejected. I picked him up and told Amber his mother to say goodbye. I carried him to my truck and drove him across the farm. In the truck, all he could do was dangle his head over the seat while I told him how no one would miss him and when you dead your mother can be free of her attack on me.

I drove towards the back of the farm, transporting Shitbox to a flooded ditch, and flung him in. Shitbox twisted in the water like a log, exposing his head in an attempt to breathe. Because of his busted leg and prolaspe, he was unable to right himself. He sank beneath the water, never to be seen again.

Goodbye Shitbox. I meant what I said you were never wanted or loved. Your mother is a POS and all that milk she made with love esspcially for you will be over my bowl of cereal soon.

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