Memories on One ‘Bloody Sunday’

When I first went to Mexico, I was thrilled to be taken to witness a bullfight. The atmosphere was exciting, the colors glorious.

However, on seeing the picadors on horseback plant the long lances behind the bull’s head, I do not know what the lances were made of, but I do know the poor creature could no longer raise its head again.

I was horrified to witness the taunting and finally the sword driven in, and as the bull moved in its death throes, the agony of the sword must have been tremendous pain.

Finally, its tail cut off and this once-proud, magnificent animal dragged ignominiously by ropes out of the arena.

I rose to leave, blinded by tears, and for many, many Sundays I was heartsick at the thought that this was the day of death for the bulls--Sunday, bloody Sunday. I will never forget it. If this is bullfighting, I for one want no part of it. William D. Dansford can’t deny it is a sad, painful death for the bull.

FRANCES LYNCH

West Los Angeles