Palm Sunday, Gallagher Ranch, Theo the bull, photos

Theo the Bull, Gallagher Ranch, Palm Sunday ©Maureen Hurley 2017

Theodore the Bull, was no Ferdinand, he was all bull, and that's no bull. When I rounded the bend to the upper pasture, he pulled his pink pecker in, and began to threaten me....I thought he was bluffing, but apparently not. He got all prancy like a horse but I didn't take him seriously until he began to drop his head and paw.... It was sort of like a cartoon two-step as I had just passed the last fencepost, expecting to sneak behind him. Not. It was more like a do-si-dos. He didn't take kindly to my trespass. I didn't know I could dive through barbed wire that fast. Ripped my favorite down vest to shreds. He is rather handsome. Angus cattle are so docile I wasn't expecting Mr. Testosterone to turn me into a Minoan Vapio cup dancer. Threat averted. I submitted, that's all he cared about. He was a bit turfy. And no, I had no designs on his harem. Theo was nothing like the old bulls I knew when I was a kid. They were rather gentle, seasoned hands. When I was a kid, Ole Grandad, the Herfie in the upper pasture on Mt. Barnabe, was friendly, and loved to be itched—not that we wanted to—as he always pizzled on his own head. I guess. Old Grandad was very nonchalant about spring and all. Maybe he was a bit too nonchalant. I suspect he became somebody’s rump steak. I always thought the rampaging bull theme was a bit of a myth. Only one young bull ever treed me up a poison oak laden telephone pole. It could be because we named him Thelma. We ate his heart wrapped in bay leaves.