He was the strappingest 6 weight bull I had seen in while.  Probably the best since I bought those 8 bulls a couple years previously.

But I was torn.

Buying calves, for me, is a bit arduous.  I don’t have a bottomless pocket like it appears some of my fellow cronies at the sale do.  Neither do I have trailer space for such. 

It often boils down to this question.  Do I stop buying now, with 2/3 of a load, or do I risk staying on and inadvertently buying more than enough and need to make two, and, in extreme cases, three trips to fetch them. 

My trailer will hold 12,000 pounds of cowflesh in a cramp; 10,000 is better.  For sure if there is a two-hour road trip ahead of them like these had. 

I was at 9,000 pounds and told myself I would stay on another half hour to see if I could pick up a couple more thousand pounds.  After that, it was pick up and leave, no holds barred.  I have to make these decisions ahead of time, I’ve found, or I’ll regret the snap decision I make later.

That’s when this shiny, black, straight-backed bull walked in.  My problem?  The program I was running called for 450 weight heifers, not 6 weight bulls.

I really don’t know what guided my thought process that day.  Only 2 out of those 8 bulls I had bought two years before had survived. 

And six hundred pounds of bull sort of ruined any chance of picking up a pair of heifers like I had originally imagined.  But that guy was by himself in the ring and going for a song, so I gave a bid and just like that, he was mine, due to the fact that no one else was bidding on him. 

I got myself out of there and to the load out before I could make any more irrational decisions.  I waited for a few minutes after the load out guy took my load sheet and then started scanning the pens.  It didn’t usually take this long. 

Another ten minutes, and he came back to tell me it was going to take a while; someone else’s load had gotten mixed with mine.  I told him mine were 450 weight black heifers with one bull.  “That’s the problem,” he said, “The rest that got mixed with yours are the same weight and black.” 

“Well, then it’s not a big deal to me, the main thing is I’d like that bull,” I said.  Not that I really wanted him so badly; I knew I had paid $120 more for him and didn’t want to give that to the other guy.

My calves finally came down the alley, and I asked the load out guy how he knew which ones were mine.  “Well, I wasn’t so sure on the heifer’s, but that bull is from our ranch.  I brought him in this morning.”  Except for a couple heifers that looked a little too leggy, I figured he had done a good job of sorting my stuff out.

When I got home, Bryce was happened to be on the yard and came over to see what I kicking out.  When said bull scampered out, Bryce asked, “Why’d you by him?”

“Well,” I stammered, “I needed a little more weight to make the trip home pay a bit better, so I just thought I’d cut him, let him heal and then we’d sell a number one steer in a couple of months and make a nice little profit.”

“Don’t cut him,” Bryce said.

“Why not?”

“Cause, I’ve been wanting to tell you I’d like to start a little cow herd of my own.  Let’s let him grow up and we can use him on a couple of heifers that we keep back.”

“We don’t know anything about calving and raising calves,” I reminded him.

“We can learn.  I’ll take care of them,” he said.

It just so happened that the wee bull didn’t like his new surroundings, and much preferred the wheat pasture to the north of our place where 70 or 80 heifers were wont to graze.

And, it just so happened each time I saw him pawing the ground and hollering away at those females, that Bryce was gone on service work I myself had sent him on.

So, it just so happened that I was the one who chased a very determined bull back and forth and away from those heifers after he had repeatedly broke through very sturdy fences. 

I once saw him calmly walk through a 4-rail fence.  He got his head and one leg through, and then, with a Samson move, heaved up on the rail overhead.  There was a loud crack and with nary a glance in my  direction, he made his way over to those whom he wished to impress, myself not being in that number evidently, as I sped towards him even as he hoofed it farther away.

He knew his time was up when I reached him, and by now he knew the drill and just as obediently turned around and followed the same row he had come down all the way back home. 

We fortified his enclosure, and after enough time in there without an escape, he must have realized it was futile, and settled in for the winter. 

It was just him and the horse in that pen, and he thought he owned the place when it came time for me to feed them.  That horse had a way of getting its way with the other calves we ran with him at times, all out kicking or biting them into obedience. 

Not him. 

His pudgy bulk soon became the first in line and the last at the bunk every day. 

He was greedy enough, that I began to take both ears and held them for as long as I could through the fence.  He huffed and would back away, giving the horse a chance at a few nibbles before he elbowed back in.

Soon, though, he tolerated my ear twisting just so he could stay at the bunk and eat.  At which point I changed tactics, and started holding my hand out before he ever made it to the bunk, making it necessary for him to push up against my hand while seeing it and knowing it would stay there.  A couple of times got a little dicey when he tried to reef my hand and arm up and away with his head, cramming it up against the fence, but I soon learned what to anticipate from him. 

From then on, it was a matter of time before he let me pet him the whole time he ate, even letting me scratch right around his eyes and occasionally cover his eyes with my hands to see how he tolerated it. 

I started walking around with him in the pen, but he let me know that our friendship was a bunk friendship only, throwing huge hoof fulls of dirt up on his back, lowering his head, shaking it and slobbering all over the place before letting out a low pitched, enormous bellow and rushing towards me. 

Some guys say that half the time when they charge you, they are bluffing and won’t actually do anything.  I didn’t know then, and still don’t on most cowflesh, the difference between a bluff and the real thing.  When there are 1,200 pounds of black hided angry headed my way, I generally turn into 200 pounds of consternation and ease myself off to the side rather than try to figure out if its bluff or not.

Another thing I had to watch for was the way he incorporated a neat little side kick into that whole routine of his as he went breezing on by.  I once heard the air hiss as his hoof cut through it, not so very far away from me lovely body, as the Australians would say.

We kept at it, he and I.  I told him all about my day and what I had done while walking around, and he told me in gruff tones about the work he still needed to get done.  Eventually, he let me in closer.  All I can figure out is I misunderstood his language at some point, and what I understood as ‘We can be sort of friends’ was actually, ‘I’ll let you touch me if you let me out to the ladies,’ which, much to his distemper I didn’t do.

For a while, he rushed me every time, and every time I’d wait until he was close and bop him a friendly one between the eyes with my fist.  I soon saw, that for him anyway, that bop told me if it was bluff or not.  Bluff, and he stopped and let me scratch his ears and slap his neck while standing by him.  Not bluff, and after the bop he kept on coming, whereupon I told him that I had a few things that needed my attention just to the right of him and the general direction of his travels.

The day came when we turned him out with the ladies he had been showing off in front of and across the fence.  They all went to the pasture, and I left them be for a couple of days before ranging out closer to see how they were doing.  I wasn’t sure what to expect from the old boy, so I took my time.  I quickly learned that you don’t get off your four-wheeler on the side he is on.  He lowered his head and like to have pinned me up against it, had I not skittered my way sideways out of there. 

I understood, though.  I act the same way when I’m around pretty ladies like my wife and sweet daughter.  Sort of protective in a macho kind of way, you might say.  Soon though, it became common to ride out to him and have a little chat and scratch his neck without all the display from him.

*****

Last week, my good wife and I jumped on a plane and landed later in Jackson Ms., to see how the recovery was coming along of one we think highly of.  We were gone a week, during which time the boys and their wives carried on with the necessary things.  I don’t know if either of the boys have a relationship with Bozar or not.  At any rate, I know neither of them had time to ride out and talk to him. 

We got home late Friday evening, and first thing Saturday morning, my good wife and I rode out to see how the group in the pasture was doing.  I stopped a little distance away from the ole boy and started walking towards him. 

He looked at me, calmly, and then laid down right in front of me.  I walked the rest of the way up to him and started scratching his ears, talking to him and telling him about our trip, asking him how it had been while we were gone. 

He lowered his head, rubbed it against the calf of my leg, and sniffed it a bit.  Next, he laid his head on my shoe, and curled his big, 50 pound head up against my leg.  I moved my foot a bit, and he moved his head to keep it where he wanted it on my shoe and against my leg. 

I guess we are pals, me and him, although I really don’t know what he sees in me for a friend.