Beware of the bull

[Vagabond]

Peter Sharpe:

"For some reason I don't mind the black white dairy variety (Fresians?) but the brownish/reddish ones can look really mean "

 

As far as bulls are concerned, it is the reddish brown ones (Herefords) that are fairly docile.

Two of the three bulls that chased me were Jersey bulls, t'other was a Fresian. Both are dairy breeds.

 

Herefords (beef) I agree are more docile, but I don't trust ANY bull.

 

I have walked in African buffalo country with more confidence than I feel when crossing a field with a bull in it.

 

[ 04. March 2005, 08:58 PM: Message edited by: Vagabond ]

[chevin]

darrreng:

yeh, if they have calves they can get a 'bit' feisty!

They can be even worse if they have just had their calf taken away from them!

 

On my trip to the UK last year, there was a very edgy cow standing over its still-born calf in a field in which I was going to fish. Rod Lane and I took a good look at the situation and felt that it might be a better idea to get the owner of the land we were on to 'phone his neighbour and tell him about the problem. That cow looked to be as dangerous as most bulls I have seen!

[chevin]

Vagabond:

You jogged my memory re the cyclist tho'

 

About five minutes after the bull incident, you reminded us that we had overtaken a cyclist just before we saw the bull  and said "I wouldn't be that cyclist for all the tea in China"            

Oh yes, I had forgotten about that. That bull was in a savage mood before it had missed us, I dread to think what its mood was like when that cyclist arrived on the scene!

[Newt]

Bulls, always fun.

[Nutshell]

Newt:

Bulls, always fun.

Well I wasn't planning on riding them Newt . Although that has given me a few ideas should the fish stop biting........

[Guest PhilB]

A couple of years ago a woman was killed by some cows in a field - they had calves and she had a dog which they took exception to. She was trampled to death. Dunno what happened to the dog. So don't take your dog with you! Just thought I'd throw that one in to cheer everyone up!

[chesters1]

i will repeat an amusing story as it mentions a bull.

As a young man i used to help a farmer that's land bordered our house (very good for metal detecting) anyway every year he used to get a completly tame one eyed hereford bull for a few weeks to service his cows ,one night i got a phonecall from him saying to get up there quick.

on arriving he rushed us up to his boundary with a neighbour who had a prizewinning herd of cows ,he pointed out the fence had fallen down (being a farmer most of it was bailer twine ) anyway the one eyed bull was having a whale of a time with these cows at the far end of the field.

he was a bit canny and we drove the complete herd onto his land along with the bull and "parked" them in the furthest corner ,we then pulled up the fence and pushed it over the other way ,he then rushed back whilst i kept the cows in the corner and phoned up the neighbour complaining his cows have trampled the fence and molested his bull ,when i saw the neighbours landrover approaching i whipped off unseen to his house and reapeared in good time to help drive back that naughty herd into their field

strangly within days the neighbour put up a new fence and that canny farmer got away with murder ,nice old chap dead now but extremly tight with his money

 

[ 03. March 2005, 10:21 PM: Message edited by: chesters1 ]

[chevin]

Wordbender has a great story about Morris and a bull. Perhaps he could be persuaded to post it here?

[Waveney One]

I haven't any particularly funny stories re bulls. I do remember having to do a detour of about four miles on the Lea Navigation right along one pound over the canal and back up the other side because of a rather overexcited bull. Fortunately in those days I didn't carry the same amount of gear that I do now.

[Wordbender]

chevin:

Wordbender has a great story about Morris and a bull.  Perhaps he could be persuaded to post it here?

It's a bit long, but seeing as you asked for it, it'll be your fault, Ian! Incidently, I met with the publishers of the 'Morris' book on Wednesday and it's a definite. Don't worry, you'll get a signed one - and I mat even get Morris to chew it for you.

 

------------------------

 

 

A GUIDE DOG FOR THE THICK

 

We are not allowed to say 'thick' any more. All creatures with a mental capacity below the common whelk, are now to be referred to as 'intellectually challenged'. This is no help to me at all. One needs to classify one's dog Morris, and one wants to be correct. The use of the term 'challenged' indicates a forthcoming struggle, after which my dog presumably has a chance of emerging victorious. Not a prayer. There is simply no 'challenge' to offer. He is totally, irreversibly, dense.

 

To be fair, Morris was never expected to represent his species at Oxbridge and first impressions confirm a physical, rather than cerebral bent. He is a bull-terrier; i.e. white, barrel-chested, and pig-faced, with compulsory patch over right eye. Stunningly beautiful to me; hideously malformed to those who prefer pets without egg-shaped heads and high-profile pink testicles. We all know what Bull-Terriers were bred to do, and given half a chance, Morris would probably do it with gusto, but he has been denied an amateur boxing career, so he isn't punch-drunk - he's thick. There I've said it again.

 

At the pre-purchase interview with Morris's Mumsie and Dadda (don't blame me, this was how they introduced themselves), I had the chance to observe his biological parents. I distinctly remember the male as daft, with fluorescent-pink testicles. Morris is simply a chip off the old blockhead. Through misty eyes and indulgent smiles, the custodians of my puppy explained the behavior of his dad.

 

Stupid? Are you kidding? He wasn't stupid, although I could be forgiven for my lack of perception. Morris's dad was having me on. He does this a lot, clever old bugger. Apparently, hurtling down the stairs and banging head first into the radiator was desperately witty. Leaping in the air and landing flat on his back every time the telephone rang was another trait possessed only by the truly gifted.

 

He also dipped his nose into a mug of scalding tea during my first encounter with the family, and would have continued dipping until his snout was par-boiled, had Morris's other dad not shut him in the kitchen. I believe I was expected to finish the tea but somehow didn't fancy it. I had contemplated plunging my nostrils even deeper than the canine mastermind had, thereby displaying awesome intelligence, but declined on the grounds that there were enough deluded people in that room as it was.

 

I was struck by the serious nature of the interrogation. All family details were demanded and considered. I must have impressed them and their devotion certainly impressed me, so we arranged another meeting. This time Morris's entire collection of parents were to meet my wife and kids. I hoped we were worthy and even considered teaching my children to head-butt radiators.

 

We passed. We'd been judged and found suitable. Baby Morris was bundled in his blanket and presented to us by his non-biological parents. Before we left, Morris's dad confirmed his sharpness by flipping an entire trayful of tea over himself, impressing my wife no-end. I told her he was going for the sympathy vote. She reckoned I was as potty as the breeders. I wasn't potty. I was having her on. I do this a lot.

 

Morris on the other hand, is thick. Father was a contender but son has taken dopeyness to Olympic level.

 

He very nearly killed me a while back. Being a robust little chap, he needs to be physically drained on a regular basis or mischief floods his empty head. I yomp him around nearby Staines moor every day, taking in the glorious sights and sounds of the Great British countryside, plus a few ugly electricity pylons and the odd boring railway line. Anyway, we enjoy it, and the land is flat enough for me to spot incoming dogs long before Morris does.

 

This, incidentally, is the way to recognise the seasoned Bull-Terrier owner. Look for 'periscope neck' syndrome. Eyes constantly scanning the horizon, as though watching a tennis game in slow-motion. It works. Morris has yet to engage, despite the irresponsible attitude of some owners who see me put Morris on his lead and assume I've just admitted he is a canicidal maniac.

 

He isn't. He sometimes acts macho when approached by strange dogs but that’s about as far as it goes. Morris has his inner circle of hairy chums, never curling a lip at any of them, but these are regular Moors-goers and he has had time to get to know them.

 

So don't think we share our homes with a killer because evasive action is taken. While you are at it, please don't allow your dog to sniff our dogs' bits and generally wind them up, while we become human maypoles in an effort to keep the peace. Thank you.

 

Right, back to Morris trying to kill me. On the Moor grazes every herbivore imaginable. Morris looks at horses, cows and sheep with commendable disregard. He is not a worrier. He doesn't really have enough to worry with to be honest.

 

If too much interest is aroused - perhaps a cow feels her calf is in danger of catching Clueless Bull-Terrier Disease from Morris - I let out with my famous "Cooomonin'enboyeee!" and he does just that, usually cannoning into my legs and laying me out. At least he comes to call, there are those who will not, but we never gossip.

 

On the day of near death, the Moor was fog-bound. Goody. Less bit-sniffing dogs to worry about. Morris and I strolled together, visibility down to a hundred yards or so. Kind of eerie, punctuated by the periodic bellow of a bored ruminant, its location disguised by the blanket of fog.

 

Morris went A.W.O.L. for thirty seconds, only to reappear hotly pursued by an enraged yak. The yak wasn't a yak, it was one of those hairy, ginger, Scottish jobs which adorn the labels of whiskey bottles; it was unfortunately, bloody mad.

 

Quite what Morris had done to freak the yak out, was a mystery, and would remain so if Jock McYak had anything to do with it. This thing weighed two tons in its stocking’d feet, with a dirty big pair of amber javelins at the focal point. We are talking serious horns here. Considering he was almost an H.G.V., the monster showed a blinding turn of speed.

 

Morris had yet to work out that the yak intended to make terrier pate out of him, and bounced along merrily, a severe goring closing by the second. Then Morris spied me, cowering behind an anorexic hawthorn shrub. He homed in like a not-very-smart bomb, tracked passionately by the last of the European bison. Obviously, I was going to die. Morris would bowl me over as usual, then I would be trundled upon by the yak, punctured a few times, and tossed about a bit, until I lodged lifeless, half-way up a pylon.

 

There were ten nano-seconds of my earthly reign remaining when my survival mechanism switched to auto pilot. Poking my head through the token bush, I delivered the following command with every decibel of my manly bearing.

"BaarggerOrrrfYoooowaaah!" This impressive demonstration of vocal control ended in a paroxysm of coughing, as my lungs imploded and fell in bits down the front of my welly.

 

As traditional breathing returned, three things were apparent. Firstly, I wasn't completely dead. Secondly, Morris was capering around my bush without a blemish. If this were not enough, the ginger yeti was lowtailing it back to the highlands at warp four.

 

Apart from the swollen blood vessels in my eyes turning the fog pink, everything was normal once more. As a celebration of our good fortune, I searched frantically for something blunt and heavy with which to batter Morris.

 

He can do some things extremely well. Reducing expensive shoes to saliva coated flip-flops, is his party piece. He only eats the uppers, and even then the toe-cap usually remains, so it's not as if they are unwearable. I consulted an expert. She told me something was lacking in his diet. While I ransack every pet shop in Europe for expensive-shoe extract, Morris cruises the house on permanent alert for the real thing.

 

I can handle him. He was not invited into our home to play chess, complete the Times crossword or entertain us with after-dinner speeches. Morris is our best mate. He does his job with limitless loyalty, affection, trust and thrust, all driven by a boundless talent for fun which tolerates neither mood nor sulk. No, we're not thick, just happy. We've been having you on. We do this a lot.

 

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