Y’all know I’m a country-ish type girl, right?  Although my youngest childhood was spent in the city where Dad was a cop, it was only because that city had a residency rule.  As soon as the “city-residency” mandate was changed to “county-residency”, we moved to the county border.

Five acres - enough to have farm animals.  At some time or another, we had everything.  Horses, sheep, goats.  Chickens, geese, ducks.  (Everything except pigs, that is.  No can eat - no will feed.)

The first year after we moved in - Dad decided it was time to raise our own beef.  Oh mah holy hell y’all.

We weren’t completely dimwitted.  I know that’s not the best looking spot for that poor little Angus steer.  It was a temporary holding pen (also known as the chicken coop) while his much larger cohort in crime was being unloaded.   The much larger cohort?  Not shown.  I have no pictures of his mean ass.

Their names?  “Meat and Beef” or “Sooner and Later”.  Take your pick.  (Dad has a morbid sense of humor sometimes.)

We’ll stick with “Later” for this story though.  “Sooner” was in the freezer within a couple of weeks.

Annnnywayyyyy, “Later” and that Pekin duck were only temporary roommates.    Which is a good thing for the duck, because that little black cow was nuts.

For the very short time that he was in our lives, he kept things exciting.  This story centers around the time the vet came out to castrate him and turn him from a full-fledged (albeit young) bull to a steer.   Knowing nothing about large-animal veterinary medicine, Dad called the vet and told him he had an Angus bull that needed to have his balls removed.  (Sorry guys - but I think those were Dad’s exact words.  You can move your hands now.  No really, I promise, your balls are safe.)

An appointment was set up for that week.  The vet would come out and do the deed.  He just asked that, in the interest of saving time, please make sure that “Later” was in the barn.

Now, Dad does nothing half-way.  He figured he’d not only have the cow in the barn, he’d have him completely ready.

Picture this.  Ready?

Our barn wasn’t a big old-fashioned barn.  It was a garage-looking building, made of cinder-blocks, with a center hallway and stalls on either side of that hall.  The rafters were open straight up to the roof (there was no “loft”).

Just before the vet is due to arrive, Dad leads “Later” into that hallway.  He ties a rope around one of that poor cow’s front feet.  He has it in his mind that this cow must be on his back - with his four legs apart - so he’s going to swing that rope over the rafters and then attach it to the other front hoof.   Then he’ll do the same with the back legs.

(Seriously, y’all.  I couldn’t make this up.  Dad grew up in Dearborn - what did he know of castrating cows?)

About this time, “Later” decides he doesn’t like this shit.  Not at all.  He tries to escape.  All 350 pounds on four hooves start bucking and tossing Dad around.   Dad, meanwhile, is trying to throw the rope up over the rafters.  Five minutes go by.  Then ten.

It has now become a battle of two of the most stubborn mammals on earth.   B. taurus versus Dad.  There’s mooing.  There’s cursing.  There’s laughing (my mother… watching the entire thing - I still can’t believe I wasn’t there to witness this fiasco).

Fifteen minutes.

“Later” is having none of it.  He decides to run.  Dad, luckily, has closed the barn door - the door that “Later” decides to plow into anyway - with Dad still attached to the rope.  A little dazed, the baby bull shakes his head - pausing just long enough to allow Dad to toss that line up over the rafters and flip “Later” onto his back.

With a quick tie-off of the other front leg, “Later” is effectively subdued.  A repeat with the back legs and Viola! - easy access to all of the necessary (well, unnecessary, obviously) dangly parts.

Now, you see this in your mind, right?  Three-hundred and fifty pounds of young bull - on his back on a cement floor - legs in the air.  My Dad, dripping sweat and standing over “Later” - grinning and muttering, “Take that motha-fucka“.  My mother - standing inside one of the stalls - doubled-over, clutching her abdomen, snorting with laughter and looking for something to wipe her eyes with.

Okay, that’s the scene that the vet sees when he walks into the barn.

His jaw hits the ground.  “Um…Mr. HotDad?”

Dad looks up.  “Yep, that’s me.  He’s all ready for you.”, he says as he steps back and sweeps his arm towards “Later” as if he’s displaying the grand prize on a game show.

The vet walks over and snips “Later” and helps Dad untie him.

“So, Mr. HotDad - did it take much effort for you to get him into this position?”, the vet inquires.  My mother, standing back, tells the vet the whole story.  By the time she’s finished, the vet has tears streaming down his face.

The vet tells Dad - “Y’know, if you lift a cow’s tail and bend it up over their back, it acts like a saddle block.  We just stand behind them and snip.  As long as they’re in a stall or someone is holding their head, it only takes about 10 seconds start-to-finish.   Just in case you ever get another one of these animals.” 

We never did get to enjoy steaks from “Later”.  He escaped was stolen not long before he was scheduled to meet his maker.  Don’t ever let anyone tell you cows are dumb.

—- In other news, it’s launch day for the new “Blissfully Domestic” - please stop by and see!  It’s a wealth of valuable information for everyone.  I’ll be writing over there about Working from Home in the Family Bliss section, so check in often, eh? —-

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