The tolling of church bells sinks under exultant roaring as the bulls are set loose downtown. From the park we can’t see their advance, but we hear the panicked car alarms, the breaking glass, thousands of pairs of leather shoes slapping pavement. A woman lends me her binoculars and through them I spy one bull, his brutish head swaying from side to side, his briefcase still tucked under one arm. He gores a hot dog stand and knocks it spinning into the street. Cars swerve out of the way, and the bull gets down to grab a wiener between his teeth. He shakes it violently, trying to snap its neck. A man in red sweatpants dances in front of the bull, taunting him. The bull takes the bait and charges, blue silk tie fluttering over one shoulder. Man and bull disappear around a corner, and I return the woman’s binoculars.
     “I’m going down there,” I say.
     She shrugs. “I’ll watch from here.”
     I fall in with a pack of young men headed toward the action. One drinks from a bottle swathed in brown paper. He offers me a sip and I take it. The liquor is sweet and strong. He tells me he comes to town every year, just for the running.
     We’re still talking when one skinny old bull comes tearing around the corner. This one can barely keep from tripping over his own feet. The men dance around him, and the bull can’t decide who to pursue. Finally he just sits down and sweats in the sunlight, wiping his forehead with a sleeve.
     “Come on,” someone says. “This one’s good as done.”
     The next street is entirely empty, not a car or person in sight. We’re halfway down the block, near an overturned café table, when several bulls appear at the end of the street. They regard us balefully, pawing at the ground. Two break away and charge, chasing my companions down a nearby alley. A third sets his sights on me. I hide behind the table, breaking the bull’s rush and forcing him to circle. He is clean-shaven. A starched white collar crimps the smooth flesh of his neck. He wears a gold tie clip, gold cufflinks, good shoes. He snorts as I sidestep, keeping the table between us. Then he hurls the table out of the way and springs.
     I retreat into the empty street, jumping over shards of broken glasses and plates. The bull plows over them and the glass slashes though his shoes. He roars and tumbles, gouging his hands on the pavement, advancing a few more yards before collapsing beside a pothole.
     At the end of the street, I see a young woman in shorts and a t-shirt run past, a bull right on her heels.
     My bull doesn’t notice. The chase is gone from him. He puts the fingers of one bloody hand into his mouth. “I guess I had a pretty good run,” he says.
     I kneel and put a hand on his heaving shoulder. His cologne, sweeter than the liquor I drank, burns my nostrils. The bull heaves a sigh and stares at the double yellow line in the road.
     “Too bad they only let you guys out once a year,” I say.
     “Nah,” he says. “Any more would take away from the thrill. Not that that matters to me now. I’m lamed.”
     “Don’t say that,” I say, though I know his wounds are deep. I stroke the back of his balding head. “What do you do the rest of the year?”
     “I was on the phone a lot,” the bull says. “I knew the numbers better than anyone. I had pie charts, I was a wizard with the calculator. And I loved my wife.”
     “What’s her name?” I ask, trying to keep him in the present tense.
     “I forget,” he says. He rolls over and tries to loosen his tie; blood smears the front of his shirt.
     I help him with the knot and undo the top buttons for him. He shudders and gasps, eyes straining upward. I pat his head again. “Easy now, big fella,” I say. “Easy.”
     A group of bulls comes toward us. They circle their fallen comrade and stand with heads hung. One of them moans softly, and the others take up the dirge. The wounded bull is lifted onto their shoulders and borne away. One of the bulls, a younger one with green eyes, says to me, “We’re short one runner.” Then the pack is gone.
     Blood-soaked and weary, I pick myself up and start walking back toward the park. At the corner a woman stands bent with hands on her knees, catching her breath. When she sees me, she screams and runs, mistaking me for a bull. And just like that, I am a bull; my exhaustion drops off like a hat. I scrape the ground and run around a mailbox, around a street lamp, tracing the woman’s wild trail. It’s easier than I thought it would be, being a bull. And I have years, so many years, before my extinction comes looking for me.