Think I Can Fly

A small Load of BULL

(prompt: 'history' 22/11/2019)

He's a long-gone piece of history... but in his prime, our feistiest bull was named Rastus. Should've been Rambo, as things turned out.

There was King Kanute, an intimidating Hereford. When he pawed the ground, he meant business. His marshmallow heart was well concealed when he turned on his 'gonna impress this lot' act for strangers, seemingly always recognising city slickers. We didn't disenchant them of their fears. Kept them and their kids out of that paddock, at least.

Napoleon was the huge Friesian 'husband' to the highest-producing 'girls' of our herd. Napoleon was the baby of the finest Friesian cow we ever milked, after artificial insemination with semen from a champion Canadian Friesian bull (at great cost to our management... but Napoleon's offspring made every hard-earned cent worthwhile).

Abby was our small black nugget of an Aberdeen Angus bull. His particular value was mating our first time mothers-to-be, thus ensuring they would have small calves and easy births.

And then there was Rastus, the feistiest bull we'd ever owned. Except... Rastus wasn't a bull at all. He was a ram - a male sheep. How could I have known what the future held for that tiny orphaned lamb I rescued? He was so needy and grateful for his milk. Was that 4 or 5, even maybe 6 warm bottles per day and through the night? I cannot forget how that little tyke demanded his tucker from the moment his eyes opened, no matter the hour. In his ear-splitting 'baa-aa-aa', he'd sing for his supper, repeating ad nauseum until a teat was jammed into the tiny pink mouth.

Was it my fault he grew up believing he was a bull? All I did was play-fight with him when he was small, as he pitted his forehead against my clenched fist. At first it was just a small push/shove contest, gradually increasing in force. But I would only have to stop and tickle him under the chin and scratch his chest and he'd melt. Still, there came a moment in his growth when he needed to be in a paddock with a fence between him and our youngest son - a toddler.

Mistake number two. Seemed sensible to share the paddock with the bulls, so he wouldn't be lonesome. For some reason, bulls must have their own playfights now and then. Nothing serious. Nobody ever hurt. BUT. This was 'red rag to a bull (uhrr... ram)' time, and Rastus was up for the challenge. He'd go through all the glowering lowered head and ground-pawing required and then CHARGE!

On impact with a real bull, he'd fly through the air, tumble through several graceless somersaults and land with a thud. Stumbling to his feet and shaking his head in wonderment (and somewhat starry-eyed?), he'd back off and repeat the performance. This would continue until the bull of the current contest wearied of it and resumed grazing. After a couple of disappointed looks and more ground-paws, our fighting ram would follow suit.

Rastus continued into a brand new career, following his bull-tossing days (in his mind, I believe),... but that's a whole other story.

We've owned a few bulls in our farming years, but none compared to the woolliest kid on the block - our Rastus.

Author's Note: No apologies about this fellow's name, Rastus, that is apparently offensive to many in today's world. When we named our little ram-lamb it was in the 1970s in rural Australia and thankfully, no such problems were opening their unattractive brains and big mouths about such as this in our corner of the world.