A Bullock Called Graham.

The farmer who owns the big, mean-minded bulls in the field behind my house also has another herd of pint size kiddie bulls in a field further up the lane. On my walk this evening, I leant on their gate and they all came charging over to have a look at me.

Pushing out in front was the biggest of them, a nearly all-white young fellow who shall henceforth be known as Graham. (Don’t ask me why; I suppose he just looked like a Graham.) Graham thrust his head over the gate and demanded attention, and attention was what Graham got in abundance. The only problem was that he would insist on trying to lick my sleeve, and I never allow that because cow spit is, frankly, slimy, smelly and pretty disgusting.

Instead, I tried to persuade Graham that it would be rather splendid to have his nose stroked, his neck scratched, and his ears tickled. He concurred for a while – especially with the neck scratching, which he seemed to be quite taken with – but then he appeared to get bored because he moved away to the side. This allowed three other young dudes, slightly smaller and slightly more diffident than Master G, to move in for their dose of stroking, scratching and tickling, which they also got in abundance. And none of them tried to lick my sleeve, which was good. Graham, however, had to have the last word.

Just as I was engaged full throttle in treating his three small pals like pet dogs, he took hold of a branch that was growing out of the hedge at the end of the gate, bent it over and hit me on the head with it. Whether he intended to punish me, or whether it was a gesture of affection, I shall never know. But it’s perfectly true.