Free Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order by Diane Kelly

circling it over his head, waving to the crowd with his free hand. The crowd erupted in applause, whistles, and catcalls, fueled by a primitive bloodlust.
    I supposed these events weren’t entirely unfair; after all, nobody had forced these cowboys onto the backs of these animals, some of which weighed in at more than a ton. These sporting events weren’t much different from boxing tournaments or karate matches or even pro football games. But the thrills came from the risk posed to the riders. Frankly, the whole thing seemed akin to the Roman gladiators of ancient times or, more currently, that Jackass television show. But perhaps I was being too judgmental. After all, many people would find the things I was interested in—art films, science museums, psychology, baton twirling—to be boring or stuffy or ridiculous. It took all kinds to make the world go round. Well, that and the physical laws of conservation of angular momentum and inertia. Wow, Seth was right. I really am a nerd.
    The crowd grew quiet, all eyes on the bucking chute as the rider settled onto the back of the bull trapped inside. The narrow chute prevented the bull from bucking, but once that gate opened, it would be a free-for-all. We held our collective breath.
    The bull snorted and tossed his head, his long, pointed horns banging against the metal of the chute. The gate swung open in an instant. Clang!
    The bull sprang from the chute like a horned jack-in-the-box. He headed in a sideways fashion toward the center of the ring, bucking every few feet in a desperate attempt to rid himself of the rider on his back. When throwing out his hind legs proved futile, he turned his head, his horns nearly gouging the rider’s leg as he whipped himself around in a circle, his enormous, pendulous testicles lagging a fraction of a second behind. My God, those things are the size of bowling balls!
    The size of Moynihan’s testicles evidently rivaled the bull’s. He hung on, one hand on the rope, the other in the air. After he’d held on for the eight seconds necessary for a qualified ride, he waited for an opportune moment, then leaped from the bull and ran for the perimeter fence, waving his black hat in the air, raising a fist in victory.
    Time for the clowns to get to work.
    My barrel-suited would-be suitor dashed into the arena from one side, while another clown ran up on the other side of the bull. Now freed from the rider, the bull settled down enough that the clowns were able to steer the beast toward the exit ramp, where he’d be rounded up and returned to a pen.
    The next rider wasn’t so lucky. He immediately slid to the back of the bull, his hand now between his knees rather than at his crotch where it ought to be.
    â€œDamn!” called a man in the stands nearby. “He’s strung out.”
    In three seconds he was thrown, tossed into the air like a rag doll, landing flat on his back, knocking the wind from his lungs, the consciousness from his mind, and sending up a cloud of dust. The bull continued to buck nearby, his hooves pounding the ground dangerously close to the limp and lifeless man. The crowd gasped as the bull flailed around, the tip of his long, pointed horn missing the man’s skull by mere inches.
    The clowns rushed forward. The one in the barrel barreled toward the bull, ramming him in the side to force him away from the prone form on the arena floor. This bull would not easily surrender, however. He continued to buck and circle, buck and circle, until one of the clowns roped him and, together, the clowns dragged him toward the exit gate.
    As soon as the bull’s hindquarters had cleared the threshold, four EMTs rushed forward, scooping the unconscious rider from the ground and onto a gurney, running with him back to the ambulance. They slipped him into the back, slammed the doors closed, and drove away, their lights flashing and siren wailing.
    The crowd sat in silence for a few seconds, but