Chapter 14 A whole lot of Bull

                                     

                                                       Chapter 14  A whole lot of Bull

 The fear I always had of bulls started back before Anthea and her family left the farm, when she drove Mum and I to Assville one-day for a shopping trip. Nearly home and on a narrow dirt road beside a farm, the car broke down. We were stranded, the day closing in. Sitting in the front seat of our Ford utility after a passing motorist agreed to relay a message to my father, we started singing.

 Happily enjoying our singalong, we were startled by the sound of a bellowing bull in a nearby paddock which rose above our voices and raised the hair on the back of our necks.  Possibly feeling threatened, (maybe he thought it was the opposition,) he was on the warpath. Mum and Anthea were scared and I was terrified. We switched off the radio, Anthea climbed into the back of the utility and lay down flat, and Mum and I crouched down quiet and still as little mice in the front. I was so scared I hardly breathed, and gradually the bull ceased his roaring, lost interest and wandered off.

 Bulls caused me no end of stress and anxiety, and I had many nightmares of being chased by a bull. In my dreams I could never run. I strained with every fibre of my being, unable to move, and of course as the bull was almost upon me, I woke up, greatly relieved that I was safe in my own bed.

 Dad’s habit of napping on our settee after the evening meal caused another bull drama. He maintained he was listening to the radio, an old-fashioned upright model at the foot of the couch. On the evening in question his red, Illawarra bull started bellowing, and it wasn’t long before the noise of the bull grew louder than the radio and the noise of Dad’s snoring.

 When Mum shook him awake he irritably replied,  "Oh, don't worry about Bully; he won't come near the house." A rock sank lower in my stomach.

 The angry bull continued to rage; Dad continued to snore. There was a fence from the road to the dairy which passed within 100 yards of the house and enclosed the dry paddock, and the bull was out there. Apparently he took exception to the noise of the radio, because he was soon forcing his way through the fence. Mum woke Dad again, but still he wasn't concerned. I was trembling. 

 At the time, we had a netting wire fence around the house, and soon the bull began pawing at that fence. I was thankful Mum had firmly closed the front door. In my heart I knew that Dad would not let the bull into the house, but I waited with my heart in my mouth.  Mum became angry, waking my dad again. 

 Fed up, he flew into action, grabbing his shot gun. At the front door he fired over the bull's head. The bull turned, and as he fled Dad fired again at his rear, peppering his backside with lead shot.

 "I'll teach the bugger!” he declared. That bull never troubled us again!
   
 Yet again, when we had a pretty yellow and white Guernsey bull, Dad had a run-in with him too. This bull was quiet compared to some and my dad considered him a pet; and this day 'the pet' was again out in the dry paddock. The shed, with a big window at the back, formed part of the fence line. The window was just a piece of ply which opened outwards and could be propped open with a length of wood paling. You could look out the window into the dry paddock. 

 Dad was out there teasing the bull, saying, "Come on bully, you're a good bully aren't you?"  and things like that.

 Mum was behind the fence near the shed. “Leave him, Alec! Leave him alone... he’ll charge you!” The bull put down its head and pawed the ground.

 Dad should have taken the warning.

 Larry was standing in the shed with the window pushed open, watching the performance, As the bull charged Dad turned to run, at the same time realizing he had no time to make it through the fence, and like lightning, he went through that window, landing in a heap, but safe and sound. He took a long time to live that one down!

As I grew older, I usually had the job of bailing up in the dairy.  This involved walking out into the yard of cows, selecting the nearest one and guiding her into the bail, putting the chain around her and attaching it to the hook on the post to stop the cow from backing out. This was a fairly straightforward job until it rained. In wet weather the yard became thick with muck and mud. I was always barefooted on the farm, but in wet weather I  wore rubber boots. The mud in the yard could become quite deep depending on the amount of rain we'd had. Sometimes, the sticky goo would close in around my boot and as I tried to step forward my foot came out of the boot and there I stood, trapped, with my boot sticking up from the mud behind me, and feeling the cold black, goo clinging round my foot and oozing between my toes.

Dry weather was preferable in the cow yard, although even then you had to be careful to avoid fresh cow-pats and puddles of pee. After the cow was milked it was necessary to slide back the wooden rail, opening the gate to let her out.

 There was usually a bull in with the cows too, and I was never quite comfortable walking around amongst the cows with the bull present, although I dare say he had things on his mind other than me!

 Dad grew sorghum, ground it in a hammer mill, and in winter fed the cows with the cereal to improve milk production. He bolted a large tub, made by cutting a 44 gallon drum in half lengthwise, to the top of the rails; and then emptied in a sack full of the cracked grain. A large jam tin served as a scoop and the cows had a feeding trough at the front of the bail. Before bailing up, I placed a scoop of the grain in the feeding trough. This encouraged the cows so much they often came into the bail voluntarily.

Another hazard for the bailer-upper was the kickers. If the cow was inclined to kick, as young heifers often were, she had to have a leg rope applied; otherwise she could easily kick over a bucket of milk, or, use her back hoof to paw away the teat cups. Applying a leg rope had to be done with special care so as not to cop a kick in the jaw.

 If the cow indicated that she was about to defecate by raising her tail, you had to be quick smart in grabbing the shovel. Catching a fresh cow pat with the shovel before it hit the concrete, could save a lot of work later. The thing I hated most was when the cow peed in the bail, because it inevitably spread across a wide area. I had to clear out pronto to avoid cow-pee splashing up my legs. Then I had to watch out for the swishing of the cow’s tail as she brushed away the flies, because it was probably wet with smelly cow pee.

The cow would have the teat cups applied and when most of the milk had been extracted, Larry or Dad would change them to the cow in the opposite bail. After the teat cups, the cow would be stripped out. In other words the milker would sit down on the milking stool and extract the last of the milk from the cow by hand into a bucket.

 I started bailing up when I was about seven, but after a few years, Larry and I were left alone to manage the dairy when our parents went away.

Whenever we were alone, Larry couldn’t resist teasing me by squirting my legs with milk. Flies were always a hazard in the dairy but when my legs were smeared with  the warm sticky milk the flies became a nightmare. I’d get so angry with Larry I’d have cheerfully throttled him if I could have! Thank goodness we were only left alone on a couple of occasions.

Milking was done twice a day, and once a day in winter, when fewer cows were being milked. The trouble was it had to be done every day, rain, hail or shine, so sometimes, the constancy of it became depressing. Even Larry, who loved the farm so much, got fed up with the dairying at times.