Buck Bellers

There is a young Angus bull in a pasture that's catty-corner to Buck's, over on the next road to ours. His name is Satan.

Not long ago, Buck was put in a new field with his ladies, where he's closer to Satan's corner. He got himself all riled up, and sent out a challenge to Satan.

If you've never heard a bull challenge another, it's a series of short gasps, Uhhh! Uhh! Uhhh! Uhhh! After each series of calls, Buck would paw the ground, sending up great clouds of dust.

I'd never seen this side of him, but it was good to remember that he is a bull, and not some big overstuffed friendly sofa.

A Visit With Buck

Faithful readers and archive diggers at this blog will remember Buck the Bull,
the sweet, low-slung Angus tank who lives the next road over. If my calculations are correct, Buck should be pushing 11 or 12 now. He's still throwing nice calves. Here are some of this spring's progeny.
The gray one belongs to beautiful gray Betty. Here she is, backlit.I think the Warren's cattle are the prettiest cattle around, with the best-managed pastures.
Although the Fleeman's Limosins are ravishing, come to think of it...I am a card-carrying cownoisseur.

Buck's still just as nice a guy as ever. I stopped on a sunny afternoon last week to visit with him. He had been scratching his forehead and brisket on a rough post and was up nice and close to the road.
There's something I like about touching a multi-ton animal who could, if he wanted, annihilate me, something I like about knowing that he enjoys the contact as much as I do. A few strands of prickly wire separate us. I scratch his forehead and tell him what a magnificent, good boy he is. I tell him how much I like to see him and how beautiful his new calves are. I ask about the little red cow I always see him with but he's not talking.

He snorts, sending a spray of flobber over me, and shakes his head. I could reduce you to a spot of grease. Don't forget that I am a bull, a very big one, a dangerous one. Mean. Unpredictable. Slobbery. Pffffuuuuf.

Yes, I know. I'm flirting with death. You are a highly dangerous bull, and I have received your warning. But I still love you. And next time I come I will have an apple and some carrots with me.photo by Phoebe Linnea Thompson. Thanks, honey.

Well, all right then. You bring me an apple, and we'll talk.

I have taken dozens of pictures of Buck in his many moods, but this is my favorite so far. I like to think he's remembering Dale.

Peaceful Bulls

Every morning when we walk the kids out to the bus, there are cattle standing in the low morning light. I love morning light, and the big blocky shapes of cattle backlit by the sun. Chet is a quivering ball of excitement at the end of his lead, as he looks over the herd, deciding which one he’d most like to chase. It’s not going to happen.

This herd is protected and squired around by a young Angus bull, a beautiful, muscular animal, a rectangle of power. Compare his build with that of ten-year-old Buck, in the pictures toward the end of the post. This one's a lightweight! He often positions himself between us (or more probably Chet) and the calves. I marvel that a single charged wire about two feet off the ground is the only thing between this massive animal and us; that if he wanted to he could run right through it and barely feel it. But he understands electric fencing, and we place our trust in his understanding. There’s Liam, seemingly safe, yet so vulnerable in truth. It is remarkable, this deal we have struck with cattle, to live among them and trust them with our lives.

I like to spy on old Buck the Bull in another pasture a few miles distant. Those of you who don’t know why I love Buck should probably listen to this NPR commentary. Buck has a lot of nice wives, including Betty, who always manages to throw a pretty mouse- gray calf despite Buck's Angus genes. While doing my final bluebird box check and cleanout a little while back, I found Buck nuzzling one of his many girlfriends. I see him in the company of this little red cow quite often. I wish I knew her name. I like to think of her as his favorite. Maybe I’ll call her Scheherazade.What are you looking at?
Nothing. Sorry to intrude.