Here is a story I wrote about a time in my childhood, many days gone by.
The Bull
As a young boy, living on a working farm, I immensely enjoyed the times spent fishing in our farm’s ponds. The ponds varied in sizes from one to five acres, and each held their own special sense of adventure for me to experience anytime I could slip away from the reality of farm life.
For the past several weeks of one particular summer, I had been curtailed from my quest of the big one just lying–in-wait only a spin cast away. That curtailment had entered my world in the form of a rather large Hereford bull.
Our old bull had entered into his retirement a few months prior, and a younger bull had become necessary to keep our herd of cattle growing in number. The younger bull was said to be full of good quality bull juice, and while that may have been true, I did know the younger bull was full of piss and vinegar of which most had been directed to yours truly.
Now, I can’t say the bull was actually demon possessed or not, but he did have an evil obsession with me. Anytime I was outdoors anywhere on the farm I was fair game for the bull’s rage. As to just why, I did not know, but the four year old bull had a deep hatred for an eight or nine year old boy namely being me. The bull had sent me scampering on each occasion he had had.
I remember one day in particular, it was a Saturday. Mom and Dad were leaving to go to Tulsa to help my Granny in her store for the day. Once my chores were completed I could have the day off. Halleluiah !!! Fish…..I would be coming to get you!!!
Once the chores were done, I grabbed my old pair of binoculars and made a visit to the top of the barn behind our house. I had to know where my nemesis was. After a thorough scanning all was well, for the bull was way at the back pasture. Visions of the fish jumping had apparently caused me to miss the broken fence during my scan.
I quickly assembled my ever ready gear. Rod… check. Small tackle box… check. Canteen…..check. Vienna sausages and crackers…. check. Ready to move out, Sir!
Like the best intentions during a heat of passion….. I was gone.
Even though the bull was a couple thousand yards away, I was taking no chances in my route. I would take the long way around in order to completely keep myself from being in sight of the horned nemesis.
All was going well, and I was only a couple hundred yards away from the sanctuary of the sacred five acre pond, when the situation drastically changed.
For reasons unknown to me at the time, the bull was on his way….and quickly.
After the first “OH SH*T!!!”, I scanned the options for my getaway and started running towards the only nearby tree in my leg’s vicinity.. some fifty yards or so from where I had just released some unintended bodily fluid within the confines of my Levi’s. The bull was fast approaching as a great white following the scent of blood in the water. Me? I could relate as to how a scampering squirrel must have felt with a pack of dogs in hot pursuit. And like that same squirrel…..I dropped my worldly possessions at the base of the tree as I quickly sought the saving altitude of the tall old elm…none too soon, for the bull had come in a very close second in the race.
The two of us, the bull and me, gasped for breath as we eyed one another. Satan must have purposely sent the bull in order to torment and possibly kill me. If there was an object lesson to be learned from this….perhaps I had been too hasty in my decision to go fishing on my day off in order to fulfill a sinful lust of my personal pleasure. No matter the true reason or reasons for the predicament, one thing remained perfectly clear to both parties involved. I was in the tree, the bull was directly below the tree, and both were to remain there ….for a long time.
The day grew longer and hotter. The adrenaline rush was long gone, and now thirst and hunger had begun to set in to the poor little treed raccoon stuck in the tree tops. My brown paper sack lunch was lost as well as the canteen somewhere along the race to the sanctuary of the tall old elm tree. My small tackle box lay at the base of the tree close by to my now broken rod and reel. As the time dragged on, I developed a keen hatred of the possessed bull from Hell.
The bull would play with me. At times he would wander off several yards, thereby giving me a glimpse of hope, and then quickly returned if I even thought of moving to a lower tree limb. All the while, I swear I could hear him laugh in a maniacal tone. In my case, the bull was neither winning a friend nor influencing an enemy. As each hour passed, my hatred grew and grew. One day, I would have my revenge. The farm was not big enough for the two of us. One of us would have to go, and it sure the cat-hair wasn’t going to be me. In my youthful mind, the bull had drawn first blood. Soon it would be me drawing his blood, and I wanted it all.
Late that afternoon, my Mom and Dad had returned from my Granny’s place. I could see them as they arrived at the house. Thirty or forty-five minutes later, I could see Dad getting into the pickup and driving into the fields, apparently sent on a mission from Momma to find me. Finally, he drove close enough for me to yell out through my distraught desert parched throat. The bull was ambling away from the tree as Dad pulled up and told me it was almost time for supper.
When asked as to why I was climbing trees, I told him about the bull and our escapade that day. He appeared confused, and politely informed me that the bull would have done me no harm. All I had to do was to have climbed down, and walk back home paying no attention to the bull.
Upon hearing that, my first thought of reply also involved a bull, but I could not have said that at the time to my Dad. It became clear to me on the trip back to the house that while my Dad the Preacher may have been a good discerner of Spirits, he didn’t know **** from shinola when it came to demon possessed bulls.
My revenge came a few weeks later, and when it did it was not entirely premeditated. Now, I had envisioned all sorts of untimely deaths involving the possessed bull, but this would prove to be just as successful in its outcome. It was amazing that an eight or nine year old country boy could ponder the dark side of the criminal mind as well as I had the last few weeks.
One morning as we had breakfast, Dad informed me that he had put some in season heifers into the bull pen for our bull to have his way with that day while he and my Mom were gone. My job would be to let the heifers out of the pen sometime in the afternoon after all the moaning had died off.
Our bull pen consisted of a heavily fenced section of ground approximately one half acre or so in size. The south side of the pen consisted of a stoutly built wooden loading ramp, a steel squeeze chute, and the backside of a barn. It had been built for doctoring, buying and selling, and feverish times of lust such as had been planned for that day. It was time to see if the new bull was worthwhile working on the farm.
It might also turn out to be a good time for revenge. In my mind, I figured even a bull could have a heart attack or other trauma to cause a death.
My impromptu plan was coming together as my Mom and Dad left for the day. By the time they would be back, surely I could perfect a story to explain the tragic events of the day in case the bull just happened to keel over and die suddenly.
The more I had thought about it, sneaking the .30/.30 was out of the equation, for Dad would recognize a gunshot wound. The idea I had come up with during breakfast would work. Dad was wondering just how useful the new bull would be…..and that provided just the idea I had needed.
Within mere minutes I softly closed the back door of the house and began my stealthy long way around the outbuildings and then crawled to the concealment of the loading chute on the south side of the bull pen. In my hands, I cradled the cold blued steel and genuine wooden stock of my state of the art Daisy B.B. rifle. Time would tell if I had the intestinal fortitude and faith to bring this modern times Goliath to his knees. While the shepherd boy had five smooth stones at his disposal to ward off the giant Philistine, I had a full cardboard tube with 500 rounds of deadly genuine Daisy copper coated ammunition at mine. Hopefully 500 rounds would be plenty.
The bull was busy walking amongst the bovine beauties, no doubt laying a line of smooth talk as he moved along. He came to a stop only fifteen yards or so away from where I lay in ambush. The bull didn’t have a clue I was around. I guess he was catching wind of other things at the time. All was going well thus far.
Now, for a B.B. rifle to have any effect on a large animal such as a demon possessed bull named Goliath from that time on, each shot had to strike a large vulnerable soft target. Yep, judging by what I could see, the proposed target should be just fine, and it was much larger than other targets I had been used to shooting. Bonus.
Taking careful aim, the first round was sent down range. Whap! A perfect hit! The bewildered bull flinched and quickly tried to ascertain what had just happened. As he settled down, and turned his attention back to the duties at hand, the next round was fired. The shot was good! Another hit!
Wherever the bull would travel to, round after copper coated round had found their intended mark inflicting much pain and mental anguish for Goliath, so much in fact that he had given up any and all attention towards the ladies of the pen. Whap! Whap! Whap!!! Time after time anytime the target was made available. Several times the thoughts of the tall elm tree were clearly in my mind. Whap! Ah, revenge was mine thus far.
At that point in time Goliath was walking very awkwardly as if each step taken was excruciatingly painful. Whap!! The target had grown in size by now, making it that much easier for me to hit. Whap! Whap! Oh the joy!!! Whap! Goliath was stepping high now. Whap!!!
It was over in an hour or so, but feeling brave now I came out from concealment to place another few round on target and clearly in his sight so he would know the source from where the agony came. Whap! Whap! Goliath had come to his knees. The battle had been fought, and the victory had been mine.
That evening when Dad got in, he asked why the heifers were still in the pen. I informed him as how there had been no reason to let them out as nothing had happened so far that day, at least not to my knowledge.
The next morning Dad checked on the bull only to find him laying down in a corner of the pen trying his best to lick his pain away but couldn’t reach the right spot. Upon closer inspection, Dad found the bull’s bull juice sack swollen to over twice its original size. On top of that is was completely covered in bruising and whelps of unknown origin. A call to the Vet transpired a very short time after that.
The Veterinarian was completely bewildered, having never seen anything like that in all his many years of practice. Anti-biotics and testing were in order. Hopefully, this was only a remote case, whatever the Hell this disease or sickness was. Amazing….he would need to consult others.
Dad looked worried. The Vet looked worried for the health of the heifers in the pen. Me? I bit my tongue while thinking whap…whap…whap…to myself.
And the bull? I swore Goliath was crying.
Dad sold the worthless bull a couple weeks later, as soon as he could walk around without whimpering. Strangely enough, he moved a wee bit faster anytime he saw me walking up towards him. Goliath seemed relieved when the stock trailer pulled out of our driveway….with him inside. He was gone…fishing time was back.
I know I should have felt guilty about the situation….but I can’t really remember myself doing so.
And if I had it to do all over again?
Whap! Whap! Whap!!
The Bull
As a young boy, living on a working farm, I immensely enjoyed the times spent fishing in our farm’s ponds. The ponds varied in sizes from one to five acres, and each held their own special sense of adventure for me to experience anytime I could slip away from the reality of farm life.
For the past several weeks of one particular summer, I had been curtailed from my quest of the big one just lying–in-wait only a spin cast away. That curtailment had entered my world in the form of a rather large Hereford bull.
Our old bull had entered into his retirement a few months prior, and a younger bull had become necessary to keep our herd of cattle growing in number. The younger bull was said to be full of good quality bull juice, and while that may have been true, I did know the younger bull was full of piss and vinegar of which most had been directed to yours truly.
Now, I can’t say the bull was actually demon possessed or not, but he did have an evil obsession with me. Anytime I was outdoors anywhere on the farm I was fair game for the bull’s rage. As to just why, I did not know, but the four year old bull had a deep hatred for an eight or nine year old boy namely being me. The bull had sent me scampering on each occasion he had had.
I remember one day in particular, it was a Saturday. Mom and Dad were leaving to go to Tulsa to help my Granny in her store for the day. Once my chores were completed I could have the day off. Halleluiah !!! Fish…..I would be coming to get you!!!
Once the chores were done, I grabbed my old pair of binoculars and made a visit to the top of the barn behind our house. I had to know where my nemesis was. After a thorough scanning all was well, for the bull was way at the back pasture. Visions of the fish jumping had apparently caused me to miss the broken fence during my scan.
I quickly assembled my ever ready gear. Rod… check. Small tackle box… check. Canteen…..check. Vienna sausages and crackers…. check. Ready to move out, Sir!
Like the best intentions during a heat of passion….. I was gone.
Even though the bull was a couple thousand yards away, I was taking no chances in my route. I would take the long way around in order to completely keep myself from being in sight of the horned nemesis.
All was going well, and I was only a couple hundred yards away from the sanctuary of the sacred five acre pond, when the situation drastically changed.
For reasons unknown to me at the time, the bull was on his way….and quickly.
After the first “OH SH*T!!!”, I scanned the options for my getaway and started running towards the only nearby tree in my leg’s vicinity.. some fifty yards or so from where I had just released some unintended bodily fluid within the confines of my Levi’s. The bull was fast approaching as a great white following the scent of blood in the water. Me? I could relate as to how a scampering squirrel must have felt with a pack of dogs in hot pursuit. And like that same squirrel…..I dropped my worldly possessions at the base of the tree as I quickly sought the saving altitude of the tall old elm…none too soon, for the bull had come in a very close second in the race.
The two of us, the bull and me, gasped for breath as we eyed one another. Satan must have purposely sent the bull in order to torment and possibly kill me. If there was an object lesson to be learned from this….perhaps I had been too hasty in my decision to go fishing on my day off in order to fulfill a sinful lust of my personal pleasure. No matter the true reason or reasons for the predicament, one thing remained perfectly clear to both parties involved. I was in the tree, the bull was directly below the tree, and both were to remain there ….for a long time.
The day grew longer and hotter. The adrenaline rush was long gone, and now thirst and hunger had begun to set in to the poor little treed raccoon stuck in the tree tops. My brown paper sack lunch was lost as well as the canteen somewhere along the race to the sanctuary of the tall old elm tree. My small tackle box lay at the base of the tree close by to my now broken rod and reel. As the time dragged on, I developed a keen hatred of the possessed bull from Hell.
The bull would play with me. At times he would wander off several yards, thereby giving me a glimpse of hope, and then quickly returned if I even thought of moving to a lower tree limb. All the while, I swear I could hear him laugh in a maniacal tone. In my case, the bull was neither winning a friend nor influencing an enemy. As each hour passed, my hatred grew and grew. One day, I would have my revenge. The farm was not big enough for the two of us. One of us would have to go, and it sure the cat-hair wasn’t going to be me. In my youthful mind, the bull had drawn first blood. Soon it would be me drawing his blood, and I wanted it all.
Late that afternoon, my Mom and Dad had returned from my Granny’s place. I could see them as they arrived at the house. Thirty or forty-five minutes later, I could see Dad getting into the pickup and driving into the fields, apparently sent on a mission from Momma to find me. Finally, he drove close enough for me to yell out through my distraught desert parched throat. The bull was ambling away from the tree as Dad pulled up and told me it was almost time for supper.
When asked as to why I was climbing trees, I told him about the bull and our escapade that day. He appeared confused, and politely informed me that the bull would have done me no harm. All I had to do was to have climbed down, and walk back home paying no attention to the bull.
Upon hearing that, my first thought of reply also involved a bull, but I could not have said that at the time to my Dad. It became clear to me on the trip back to the house that while my Dad the Preacher may have been a good discerner of Spirits, he didn’t know **** from shinola when it came to demon possessed bulls.
My revenge came a few weeks later, and when it did it was not entirely premeditated. Now, I had envisioned all sorts of untimely deaths involving the possessed bull, but this would prove to be just as successful in its outcome. It was amazing that an eight or nine year old country boy could ponder the dark side of the criminal mind as well as I had the last few weeks.
One morning as we had breakfast, Dad informed me that he had put some in season heifers into the bull pen for our bull to have his way with that day while he and my Mom were gone. My job would be to let the heifers out of the pen sometime in the afternoon after all the moaning had died off.
Our bull pen consisted of a heavily fenced section of ground approximately one half acre or so in size. The south side of the pen consisted of a stoutly built wooden loading ramp, a steel squeeze chute, and the backside of a barn. It had been built for doctoring, buying and selling, and feverish times of lust such as had been planned for that day. It was time to see if the new bull was worthwhile working on the farm.
It might also turn out to be a good time for revenge. In my mind, I figured even a bull could have a heart attack or other trauma to cause a death.
My impromptu plan was coming together as my Mom and Dad left for the day. By the time they would be back, surely I could perfect a story to explain the tragic events of the day in case the bull just happened to keel over and die suddenly.
The more I had thought about it, sneaking the .30/.30 was out of the equation, for Dad would recognize a gunshot wound. The idea I had come up with during breakfast would work. Dad was wondering just how useful the new bull would be…..and that provided just the idea I had needed.
Within mere minutes I softly closed the back door of the house and began my stealthy long way around the outbuildings and then crawled to the concealment of the loading chute on the south side of the bull pen. In my hands, I cradled the cold blued steel and genuine wooden stock of my state of the art Daisy B.B. rifle. Time would tell if I had the intestinal fortitude and faith to bring this modern times Goliath to his knees. While the shepherd boy had five smooth stones at his disposal to ward off the giant Philistine, I had a full cardboard tube with 500 rounds of deadly genuine Daisy copper coated ammunition at mine. Hopefully 500 rounds would be plenty.
The bull was busy walking amongst the bovine beauties, no doubt laying a line of smooth talk as he moved along. He came to a stop only fifteen yards or so away from where I lay in ambush. The bull didn’t have a clue I was around. I guess he was catching wind of other things at the time. All was going well thus far.
Now, for a B.B. rifle to have any effect on a large animal such as a demon possessed bull named Goliath from that time on, each shot had to strike a large vulnerable soft target. Yep, judging by what I could see, the proposed target should be just fine, and it was much larger than other targets I had been used to shooting. Bonus.
Taking careful aim, the first round was sent down range. Whap! A perfect hit! The bewildered bull flinched and quickly tried to ascertain what had just happened. As he settled down, and turned his attention back to the duties at hand, the next round was fired. The shot was good! Another hit!
Wherever the bull would travel to, round after copper coated round had found their intended mark inflicting much pain and mental anguish for Goliath, so much in fact that he had given up any and all attention towards the ladies of the pen. Whap! Whap! Whap!!! Time after time anytime the target was made available. Several times the thoughts of the tall elm tree were clearly in my mind. Whap! Ah, revenge was mine thus far.
At that point in time Goliath was walking very awkwardly as if each step taken was excruciatingly painful. Whap!! The target had grown in size by now, making it that much easier for me to hit. Whap! Whap! Oh the joy!!! Whap! Goliath was stepping high now. Whap!!!
It was over in an hour or so, but feeling brave now I came out from concealment to place another few round on target and clearly in his sight so he would know the source from where the agony came. Whap! Whap! Goliath had come to his knees. The battle had been fought, and the victory had been mine.
That evening when Dad got in, he asked why the heifers were still in the pen. I informed him as how there had been no reason to let them out as nothing had happened so far that day, at least not to my knowledge.
The next morning Dad checked on the bull only to find him laying down in a corner of the pen trying his best to lick his pain away but couldn’t reach the right spot. Upon closer inspection, Dad found the bull’s bull juice sack swollen to over twice its original size. On top of that is was completely covered in bruising and whelps of unknown origin. A call to the Vet transpired a very short time after that.
The Veterinarian was completely bewildered, having never seen anything like that in all his many years of practice. Anti-biotics and testing were in order. Hopefully, this was only a remote case, whatever the Hell this disease or sickness was. Amazing….he would need to consult others.
Dad looked worried. The Vet looked worried for the health of the heifers in the pen. Me? I bit my tongue while thinking whap…whap…whap…to myself.
And the bull? I swore Goliath was crying.
Dad sold the worthless bull a couple weeks later, as soon as he could walk around without whimpering. Strangely enough, he moved a wee bit faster anytime he saw me walking up towards him. Goliath seemed relieved when the stock trailer pulled out of our driveway….with him inside. He was gone…fishing time was back.
I know I should have felt guilty about the situation….but I can’t really remember myself doing so.
And if I had it to do all over again?
Whap! Whap! Whap!!
