The Red Bull

The red bull has died.  After an intense few weeks he finally succumbed to the work of a parasite who had made its way into his spinal cord.  The tiniest of creatures was this worm.  And the bull so very large.  The cows called for him constantly while he was in the barn at the last.  I knew he had died when one great cry from what seemed the entire herd came up from the pastures and then suddenly stopped.

He was a good bull.  Not as personable perhaps as the bull he replaced, One-Eyed Jack, the marvelous black Tennessee bull who was struck down by lightning.  But he was even tempered, ever watchful and ever diligent in  his care of the herd. He had a terrific bellow which he used to make sure the neighboring bull knew what was what when that herd made its way to the adjoining pasture. He watched me closely when I would walk through the meadow but never bellowed nor made an aggressive move of any sort toward me.  He was red, a lovely auburn with a distinct curly topknot crowning his broad and noble head. Handsome. Very.

The young bull who has taken his place seems to be getting his bearings. Right now his bellow is, sad to say, like one of those cans that turn and make cow sounds.  But I'm sure a deep and impressive bellow is on its way and when that day comes the canned cow moo will be forgotten.  Hopefully.

Unlike us, our neighboring mammalian rumminants seem not inclined to take the sorrows of the past and project them into the future. An altogether clever and remarkablely fiendish way to create worry. Maybe next time I find myself attached to that sort of human phenomena I'll stop and give out a good loud bellow.  Having master bellowers as neighbors I'm thinking this could be handy.  Even wise.  Who knows?

What I do know is this:  The king is dead.  Long live the king.