According to a quick Google look up, anything bovine has been considered sacred in India since at least 1,000 years before Christ visited this earth in person.  Originally, any milk producing bovine was considered holy; it soon morphed into anything bovine.  Most cattle in India are Brahman.  The breed gets its name from the Brahman cast of people who were priests. 

Today, for sure in the northern part of the India, cattle live in smug preeminence.  “You can’t touch me,” they say, while lazily chewing their cud.  They gaze with impunity upon lesser mortals such as you and I.  We came upon them lying down in the median of a busy four lane highway.  We slowed, we were already going slow, to a cautious speed, knowing that should the whim possess them, they might just get up and amble across all four lanes of traffic, and nary a scratch would be inflicted upon them. 

I’ve seen them sleeping half the day away in the middle of utter chaos and mind-blowing noise.  They don’t care, and neither do their little ones.  No one is going to rustle them up from where they chose to lie down.

They learn their importance early on. 

I once saw a 1,100-pound bull make his way into one of the vendor’s stalls at the open-air market we were walking through.  Crates of merchandise were bumped and toppled.  The two men haggling a deal were jostled.  But not even the slightest hint of annoyance was shown by the two; neither could they shout at, prod, or kick the beast like I might have done.  He was holy and he knew it.  One of them grabbed up a handful of vegetables and tried to coax the lumbering deity away.  But not so.  He had found a place to park himself and that was that.

Someone, somewhere, had an idea.  And I will give it to whoever had the idea that the original idea probably wasn’t such a bad one.  But somehow, the implications of that idea were never thought out, or, if they were, perhaps the one who thought them out quickly escaped the country in which he had the original idea. 

The idea, as I have it, was acted upon in 1885 here in the United States.  The thought was that if one of these super important, super holy bulls from India were bred to a super open minded, up to any challenge, half rebellious, half wild Texas cow, the beginning of an almost indestructible species of cattle would result.

(The idea had good intentions.  The Indian brahmas are known for their thick skin, resistance to heat, and ability to withstand hardships.)

What resulted is a U.S. recognized breed.  Following are a few of my observations of some of the traits of Brahma cattle.  I seriously doubt the cattle magazines of today would agree with me, but so be it.  The Brahma of today retains a severe amount of pride and impunity from its long succession of holiness and worshipful offerings given it.  It’s thin, almost deer-like legs have tremendous power and spring, which, when coupled with the rebellious, challenging blood of its mother, give every opportunity for defamation.

Of the one who purchased them, that is.

When you come within 10 feet of one of these creatures, you get the feeling of being looked over, sized up, looked down on and a guttural, almost satanical chuckle directed at you, all in a mini second of time.  And, if you stand there long enough, they can’t resist showing off a little.  They’ll start jumping and prancing around, making near misses as they run past by you, and then cleanly sail over the top rail of the fence. 

Just for spite, they’ll sometimes give a quick teensy little kick as they go sailing over, and your beautiful top rail goes to smash in a splinter of a second.  With their little head held high and that big flap of neck skin raking from side to side they’ll quickstep away from you a decent distance, spin around on their hind legs and face off to you, daring you for another go around.  

I know all this now.  I didn’t then.

Back then, I was a hopeful new cattle buyer.  My number one criteria, get them cheap.  Number two, get them healthy.  Number three, get them home.  (A whole ‘nuther story could be written on that last one.) 

Back then, I saw two high stepping rigs come into the ring.  No matter that they nearly treed the sale barn ring guys right then and there.  It was just sale barn stress.  (A newly minted term to justify my purchase of them.)  I bought them right off, somewhat disconcerted that there was little, if any bidding against me.  So far, I had satisfied two of my buying criteria.  Got them loaded and trailered back to our place.  Opened the trailer door and kicked them out. 

They never stopped to see what our place looked like. 

In seconds they had cleared the top rail and were headed east. 

I saddled up our trusty ole mare and leaped into the saddle.  She and I had this.  We both felt it and had visions of the glory ride back home, the two critters roped and slinking behind, we in front, me with my chest pumped out, she with her head so high it nearly touched Jupiter.

We cantered out to within 500 feet of where they had slowed up a bit.  They threw their heads up and started trotting off to the east again.  A problem began to present itself within a short distance.  My trusty ole mare was laboring in near full gallop, and it appeared they never broke their trot.  It soon became apparent that the good girl beneath me was giving all she had, and they, looking back in that condescending way of theirs, realized it and slowed their pace so she wouldn’t feel so badly. 

We tussled on for another couple of miles in circle after circle before the ole girl and I dejectedly turned back in a westerly direction towards home.   The rope I had so gamely thrown repeatedly, and from way too far away, made for a long trailing line of disappointment behind us.  I really don’t know why I tried to rope them anyway.  Any of my family or friends can tell you my hand/eye coordination doesn’t seem to register very high.  Some have even gone so far as to say I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn from the inside.

I turned around, and saw those two standing off, giving us that once-over-high-brow look they give.  As near as I could tell, they weren’t even breathing hard.  I was pretty sure I heard a guttural chuckle or two. 

They migrated on southeasterly and soon joined up with the neighbor’s cattle, about 1 ½ miles from our place.  The neighbor was kind and told us to leave them in there with his until he gathered his group, and we could sort them off in a semi-controlled situation and get them loaded and hauled into town.

*****

About three months later, my neighbor Kevin called and said he had that group of calves penned in some panels he had set up in the middle of his pasture.  I thanked him for letting me know and told him I’d be there later in the day to load ours after they had theirs loaded out. 

He told me he thought it would go better if he and his brother Wade and I, all three, would work together to get them loaded.  I sensed my neighbor knew what he was talking about and made haste to get our trailer hitched up and rattled my way over to his panel corral.

When I got there, I saw Kevin and Wade standing off to the side of the panels, discussing the situation.  They were as cool as you please, those two brothers, while those two Brahmas were tearing things up, slobbering and snotting, slamming into panels, twisting this way and that, never once standing still. 

The panels were in an oblong shape, about 30 feet wide by 60 feet long.  At the end opposite of which I was backed up to, it opened into an alleyway that soon narrowed down to the width of a trailer.  That alleyway circled back up alongside this oblong pen they were in.  Once they were in the alley, they had about 60-70 feet before they got to my trailer.  My Brahma’s were burning a rag as far away from us as possible in the oblong part.  They looked like they were just a twitch away from hiking right on over the top and leaving.

Kevin told me the plan.

“There’s no way to do this like we normally do.  I’ll get them started moving towards that alley.  Once they hit the alley, Wade will jump in and keep them moving, maybe speed them up a little.  We don’t want to give them any chance to turn around.  If they do, we’ve lost them.  You’ll stand right behind your trailer door where they can’t see you.  As soon as they hit your trailer, you slam that door as fast as you can.”

Kevin got them started.  Like I said, both those guys were cool as cucumbers.  Those Bramers tried their rush thing on Kevin, but it never ruffled him.  He got them turned and moving.  Wade jumped in right behind them with a long stick, once they entered the alley, and turned up the heat a couple more notches.  They hit my trailer at Bramer speed, saw the trap it was and locked everything up and got started turning around.  Their momentum had them sliding, feet and legs flailing for a purchase on the trailer floor, all the way from the back to the front of the trailer.  I saw one of them button up into a little ball of cowflesh as she hit the front.  She got untangled in a mighty shorty hurry, though, and was heading back at me.

I engaged some lightening quick reflexes I didn’t know I had, and the trailer door slammed shut, just as Wade came flying over the top rail himself of the other side of the alley, grabbed the latch, and had it latched before those girls could say Jack Diddley Squat. 

The trailer I was using then is called a half top.  Which means the top extends only halfway to the back of the trailer.  Those girls were spinning and gaining momentum with every second. 

“Get ‘er moving and don’t stop!”  Wade hollered.  “They’ll bail if you stop!” 

This said after I had jumped in the cab and rolled my window down to thank them. 

I could tell he knew exactly what he was saying would come true if I didn’t start rolling right then and there. 

I moved.

The sound and commotion going on behind me slowed a bit as I sped up, but it never let up all the way to town, 30 miles away.  My truck rocked, swerved, and jounced as they deemed fit.  Concussions of sound rained down all around me, even though I had my windows shut.

I was several miles on my way, when I realized there was road construction on the road I normally took.  I had terrible visions of those girls up and over the side, along the row of parked cars and trucks at top speed, and finally plastering the flagman against the nearest vehicle before they left for places yet unknown.

I took a different route, and as I got near to town, I started looking out as far ahead as I could to the next stoplight.  If it was red, I eased up so I could hopefully keep moving through it by the time I was there.  Green, and I poured on the coal. 

Of course, the sound effects and irrational movements never abated.  We wobbled, twisted, and banged through every light in that city.  Folks started keeping their distance, and with good reason. 

I could see that the loadout guy at the sale barn wasn’t there. 

No problem.  I was going to unload without his permission.  The fact is these girls were going to unload regardless. 

The truck had hardly stopped in the unload bay before I was running at Olympic speed to the back of the bay to throw the gate shut on it and open the gate into the nearest pen. 

I barely made it back to the trailer as one was rearing up.  Immediately the smell of burned hoof filled the air as I opened the trailer gate and they levered for traction on the concrete slab.   

They made one mad dash into the pen, and I crashed the gate shut behind them just as they slammed and bloodied their noses on the other side. 

They brought a couple hundred bucks less than I bought them for, the way I remember. 

I heard tell they treed the ring guys.  I wasn’t there.  Didn’t want to be associated with them.

I sometimes wonder about that idea that guy had, back in 1885.