Cows are docile. Bulls not so much. But that stands to reason – I mean if you were sporting a 5 pound nut sack swinging between your legs you’d probably feel like a testosterone king of the universe too.
On my run today I stopped to visit with one of the local cowboy’s, a friendly chap by the name of Jorge whom I’ve seen and spoken with many times over the last few months.
I even know his small herd – twenty-eight cattle – especially because he has one rarity, a Brahma bull. The only one I’ve seen in this particular valley in Mexico.
I know my cattle, one of the things my grandfather taught me as a small boy. And I can still tell the difference between a French Charolais, a Holstein and a Texas Longhorn. And Jorge had a mix of about everything including a Jersey cow or two.
They were milking animals. And there were several herds run by several cowboys throughout the valley.
Side story: One of my favorites was run by a small, smart little Australian Border Collie mix with the hysterically improbable name of Milton; which was probably not derived from the 17th English century poet of the same name. (BTW – the name sounds much more humorous pronounced in the Spanish: Meel-Tone’.) Just the same he was a good natured, hardworking little dog who’d always shimmy up to me for a quick pet before scooting back to work to mind his herd.
So anyway, I was standing there this morning talking to Jorge when a head butt to the ass almost knocked me to my knees. Jorge gave it a slap, “Cabron! – (you bastard)”, he yelled.
I turned in time to see the bull saunter off as if nothing had happened. The head butt didn’t hurt so much as was the surprise of getting rear-ended. I laughed and told Jorge that I was happy that his bull didn’t have horns.
My asshole had been so traumatized in recent weeks from a bout with food poisoning that it couldn’t have probably survived the opposite encounter of getting reamed by a bull’s horn.
I left Jorge to finish my run laughing to myself about that bastard Brahma thinking to myself that probably was just his way to say hello. I mean if he really wanted to hurt me he’d have hit me a helluva a lot harder than he did.
It was his nonchalant departing swagger that led me to that particular conclusion. That bull wanted to separate himself from the cows and in doing so introduce himself as the one and only true Big Bull. He intuitively knew Jorge and I collectively ranked somewhere turd low on the testosterone scale.
But it was the southern exposure of his huge swinging nut sack that said it all; his bovine farewell wave goodbye to us all.