Meadow Muffins . . .

If you’ve got cattle…. they’re gonna get out. You can count on it. That’s a law that must be written down someplace. A friend of mine shared a little tale with me the other day that needs repeatin’. He made me promise not to reveal his true identity, and after you hear the story, I think you’ll be able to see why.

The Donaldson family ran Black Angus cattle, and like most ranchers, were pretty proud of their herd. They had a good bunch of cows, but back in those days black cattle weren’t as big as they are now, and a big heifer at calvin’ time would weigh about 800 pounds or so. That seemed to work out just fine… as long as you were a little selective about the bulls you used on them.

Right after breakfast one morning ol’ Dad sent Tom and Jack out to check the heifers. It was the middle of June sometime, and breeding season was in full swing. When the two boys got to the pasture, they found an unwanted visitor ... again. They’d had trouble with one of the neighbor’s bulls and had chased him home several times, but the durn thing was back in again.

He was a big raw boned Charolais that weighed way over a ton, and probably had a birth weight of a hundred and twenty five pounds or so. To have him in with their heifers was just an accident waiting to happen. They’d never be able to have those calves.

The fence jumpin’ bull belonged to the Bakers. They were pretty big operators that had a whole township of land in one chunk right over the fence and were always pretty quick to tell everyone just how much land they had and how successful they were. For them, a bull in with the neighbor’s wasn’t even an inconvenience. They had lots of bulls.

Ol’ Man Donaldson had called and told them about the problem they’d had with the unwelcome visitor on several occasions, but the Bakers apparently had more pressing matters to attend to, and as a result the bull was back, and wouldn’t stay out.

The young cowboys tied into the job at hand, but didn’t have much luck. The boys were good hands and were pretty well mounted, but Mr. Bull was not very cooperative. He was enjoying the feminine companionship of a couple of the black beauties in his company, and had no intentions of going anywhere.

A ton of bull on the fight is nothin’ to sneeze at. The bull won, and the boys went back home to break the bad news to Dad. The ol’ man was furious. One thing the boys had learned through the years was to just stay quiet when Dad was on the prod. They didn’t say a word, but just did as they were told and didn’t ask any questions. Pa Donaldson jerked the cinch up on his big sorrel geldin’ and had his rope down before they even got to the field.

The ol’ man snagged the brute with his very first loop, but the bull had barely gotten the slack out of the rope when he wheeled around and came right back towards the horse. He had that sorrel gelding in his sights and murder on his mind. Dad managed to spur ahead enough that the bull missed him, but just barely.

You have to get this picture in your mind. There’s a ton of mad Charolais bull headed south at 30 MPH with a rope around his neck, and ten feet of slack later, there’s an irate cowboy dallied up on a 1200 pound horse headed west with that rope under his tail. Had the two not been connected, this story wouldn’t be near this interesting.

What a wreck. Dad lived through it, but he was quite a while getting back to his feet and he didn’t walk quite as straight when he finally wiped himself up off the ground. If it was actually possible, his mood had deteriorated even further.

The boys just THOUGHT he was on the prod before. He really had blood in his eye now. Getting back on his horse was quite a struggle, but soon they were headed back home for the pickup and more rope, with the boys just stayin’ quiet and doing as they were told.

That old pickup was just hitting the high spots on the narrow prairie trail as Dad headed back out to the heifer field with the boys loping along behind. He ran the pickup tire up on the rope that was still around the bull’s neck, and hollered at Jack to tie the knot end around the trailer hitch on the back.

“Now, heel that #$%$@,” Dad yelled at Tom. A ton of bellerin’ white bull was circling the pickup with Ol’ man Donaldson tearin’ an acre of prairie up with the pickup in four wheel drive.

Tom threw a loop on the rear end, and they soon had him stretched out. The boys were still in the dark as to how all of this was going to get the bull back in his own pasture, but it wasn’t long until they got the drift of the old man’s plan.

As Dad stepped out of the pickup with his pocketknife in his hand, it was the first time they’d seen him smile all morning. It was the kind of grin that graces a tomcat’s face just before he eats a big field mouse.

“Now, let the %#$@ up,” were the instructions as the old man slipped his pocket knife back in his jeans. “Don’t think he’ll feel much like botherin’ any heifers for a day or two.”

The elder Mr. Donaldson had only done half a job of making a steer out of that bull, and although the boys feared it might kill him ... it didn’t. Dad was right though; he sure didn’t bother the heifers for a few days. A short time later they got him worked over into a field of cows where he wouldn’t (or couldn’t) do any serious damage.

Another strained phone call to the Bakers resulted in the permission to haul the bull to the sale barn on the next trip to town. The boys mixed him in with a few dry cows and Ol’ Whitey got a one-way ticket to the city.

The big successful land baron, Mr. Baker, was in the audience at the sale barn when his bull went through, and announced very loudly and proudly to the audience that this was a registered Charolais bull, and if anyone wanted him for breeding purposes that he would gladly pay for a fertility test. That’s exactly what happened, and the fertility exam was ordered.

The Vet was grinnin’ like a skunk eatin’ onions as he gave Mr. Baker the news of why Whitey had flunked his test. Baker sent a glare at Jack and Tom that would burn the paint off the wall. Of course they didn’t know anything about it.

Whitey was resold for hamburger. He’d just jumped his last fence, and for some strange reason the boys didn’t have any further problems with white bulls bein’ in with their heifers.

Keep Smilin’….and don’t forget to check yer cinch.

Ken Overcast is a recording cowboy singer that ranches on Lodge Creek in North Central Montana where he raises and dispenses B.S. http://www.kenovercast.com.