I had a run
in with our youngest bull, not my first, but my closest so far. All turned out well, neither one of us is
hurt, unless you count my look that could kill, but I do not get the impression
he was disgruntled by that.
Always being
prepared, with my guard up is the only reason I was able to escape him. Plus, he had tried the same action just the
day before, therefore my eyes were peeled for him and I knew my escape route.
First let me
apologize for the curse word I am using for him. Knee deep into a Ralph Compton, western book
series with tales of long, arduous cattle drives and Spanish speaking Indians,
I somehow feel that if I say it like the men in this story say it, then it
doesn’t really count. In Spanish it doesn’t
seem as curse-wordy.
We first
brought this beautiful slab of beef home when he was just a wee little guy. He was hot and ready to work, day and night
if need be.
Once when walking to the feed bunk, I noticed
that look in his shiny black eye, his left one to be precise and I knew. That black bastardo was going to kick me.
Always carrying a five-gallon bucket of feed between myself and our
livestock, his hard hoof planted on the plastic that I was carrying instead of
my tender flesh. Never having another
altercation for an entire year, I was a little perplexed when for the last
month he developed a little of a “tude”.
One more
thing. Do not label me as racist for
calling him black. It’s a descriptive
word and I feel those who do not know Angus cattle may not understand there are
also red Angus cattle. Now
you have an image to go with this story.
Back to
cattle drama. Each day I don my custom
braces while working on the farm to increase my stability because of my fused
ankles. Sixty-two (my name for our bull
because of ear tag) had developed a habit of closing the gate to his feed lot,
cutting himself off from grain. It
swings one way and each time I tied the metal barrier open, the next day, as
sure as the sun shines, this hunk of muscle has broken what I thought was my
solution.
He’s still
young, maybe he was entertaining himself or maybe he was being an ornery
male. Here’s where it gets a little
precarious. The gate has to swing
outward and he must walk around it, enter the alley and ambulate to his feed
bunk. He is big, clumsy and
impatient. Not understanding he must
wait for the gate to open wider than his chiseled flanks, he would
inadvertently get himself caught in between the gate and pipe fencing or close
the gate again. I tried and tried, but
he was not a thinker, he was a reproducer and it was showing. It was also wearing on my own patience.
Not enjoying
this experience and wondering what the heck tightened up his bung hole, I made
a pack with myself, for my safety. If
the same scenario happened one more time, Carey would not feed this moody
beast.
You know
it’s always that next time, isn’t it?
Next day, gate closed, I hold it open and begin climbing to the top rung
of the fence. This day he was again not
patient, but he was not clumsy either.
It’s like he mastered a martial arts class in one night and became as
agile the Karate Kid during his last tournament.
He was
coming for me, eyes not wavering, focused on me. I was the only thing
that existed for him. Almost to the top
rung, his head dips down only to raise up swiftly. Already having my right leg over the fence, I
pull my bent left leg higher as his massive hard head catches under my knee and
there I go. Like an awkward ballerina
flying through the air, trying to catch a glimpse of him but yelling to the
blue sky and white clouds, “ Youuuuu Bastardoooooo!”
Apparently
my left hand still encompassed the metal piping, pulling hard, I righted myself
in mid-air and came down feet first.
Having mentally prepared for any fall, I hijacked my right knee to my
arm pit, knowing I will do anything not to land on my right foot, I put that
left foot down and waited for the sting to ride up my leg as I landed.
Holding my
breath, bending forward, riding out the wave of fire traveling up to my knee, I
turn my head slightly to the left as I look between the rusty pipe fencing,
only to see a smirk on this muscle butt’s face as he says, “Booyah”.
Recovering
more quickly than I thought it would take, I straighten up while muttering
incomprehensible words at not only Sixty-two, but myself. “You win; I’m not messing with you
anymore. I’m done. Wait ‘til Dad gets home,”, I spat.
I challenge
myself daily, prepare before entering any situation and am constantly aware of
my surroundings, due to my situation and career I choose to work in. This day is the reasoning behind that. It is also the reason that there are times I
must accept that some jobs cannot be mine.
Usually taking a few times to find a creative alternative doesn’t always
pan out, as in this case.
Giving it my
best shot, I admit, it is in my best interest if I keep a pipe fence between
myself and this black Angus bastardo.
WINNER: Sixty-two.
