Paul Marchant

I opened one eye and rolled my head to one side so I could get a glimpse of the bright red digital numbers silently screaming at me from the clock on the nightstand. 2:37 a.m., it read. Somehow, I’ve never needed an alarm to prod me from my intermittent periods of fitful slumber during calving season.

As weekly Tuesday auctions go, it was pretty typical. I arrived at about quarter after 1. I was there in search of a few yearlings to finish out a pen, but they were still going through the last of the killer cows and Holsteins.

Tag number 549. I made a mental note of the number and wrote it on the back of my hand when I made it back to the pickup and loaded the horse and dogs. It was mid-December.

I was making my obligatory social media run-through a few days ago. As I scrolled down through the Facebook news feed, I came across a post from a friend of mine in southwestern Montana. One of her favorite old horses had moved on to the other side – not just the other side of the creek or the other side of the fence but the final “other side” of that veil that’s so thin yet so impenetrable.

A couple of years ago, we were anticipating a rather bland Christmas. I believe it was the first year after the youngest of the kids had left the house after his graduation from high school, so I guess that officially made my wife and me empty nesters.

I’m not a social media genius, but ever since my kids set up a Facebook account for me nine or 10 years ago, I dabble regularly in the medium. I now have Instagram and Twitter accounts to accompany my profile in Mr. Zuckerberg’s kingdom.