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2001-10-09 - 9:15 a.m. Wendymail: Things not to do during a bullfight Blissfully productive weekend. Mel made me dinner Saturday night. Mel: Are you hungry yet? Theo:Yes, but I'm not ready to cook yet. But there's a pork tenderloin defrosted you could do something with. Hey, you said you don't get enough chances to cook� Grin. Yum. Many, many projects got finished, which I will not bore you by listing. I'm very excited about Pilgrim's Tale. I'm now moving into the anxious autocrat phase of last minute details and pray for good weather. Today, I am too busy to really write, so I will leave you with another Wendymail story. Things not to do during a bullfight The weirdness began early in my life. I grew up on a hundred acre farm situated along Orney Holler Rd in a little town deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Yes, I know, given my sophsticated demeanor, you'd never expect I can mend any type of fence ever invented, herd cattle, train goats to ride on the tractor, and pack a hayloft faster than anyone else in my family. But, I can. So there. My mother is a schoolteacher and my father is a cemeterian, but the farm had been in my mother's family for years, so we ran a small herd of cattle, mostly Black Angus, in our spare time. And the pride of the herd was Champ. Champ was the solid black bull. Well, black everywhere except for a small white tuft that marked, his, umm, working parts. He was named Champ because my parents had bought him from Champ Clark. (Hey, they named the red horse, Brick, the white horse, Smoky, the first calf born during the bicentiennal, 1976, the cat found in the barn, Barney, and the kitten found in the woodpile, Woodstock. They were pretty straightforward about these things.) And he was a good bull. Given a feed bucket and a whistle, he'd follow my mom everywhere. She had that animal trained to heel. Potty trained, no, but he would follow her around like a puppy. Despite the bad press, most bulls are quite calm and well behaved. Except in the spring. Ah, me, spring - the flowers are blooming, love is in the air, and a breeding bull is in his glory. The spring when I was eleven, Champ got so enthused about his work, that he didn't stop with our herd - he broke down the fence and went visiting the neighbors. There were two problems with this. First, the neighboring herd already had a bull to, umm, entertain the ladies present. In fact, the bull in question was Champ's half brother, another solid black Angus. Now, like all children they do not share well, and proceed to discuss, in a rather violent fashion, just who is, umm, in charge of this herd. Secondly, the neighboring pasture borders my neighbor, Carol's backyard. Now, Carol is a lovely woman, but she is a city slicker. She grew up in DC, married a boy from my hometown, and now lives along this deserted country road while her husband commutes to DC to work. (Don't ask me.) I say city slicker because her nerves are not well suited for this quiet country life. Things chirp at her, her neighbors spread manure rather than spend the evening at the theather, and now there is a bullfight going on just behind her house. The first we hear of Champ's amorous adventures is a hysterical phone call from Carol. She is practically in tears. It takes at least five minutes to decipher her problem - but once she stops hyperventilating and enuciates, we leap into action. Myself, my brother, and my parents pile into the old brown jeep - the quinessential farm vehicle. The sides are rusted through so you can see the road while driving, and the back is piled full of tools and various unidentifiable supplies. Quickly, we speed over to Carol's to rescue our bull from her screeching. Carol is standing at her back fence, pale as a ghost, clutching her two small children. (Personally, if you were scared, I'd think you would move AWAY from the bullfight, but anyway) The bulls are locked in mortal combat, snuffling, bawling, head butting, stomping, pawing, and kicking up a horrendous amount of dust. Mom grabs a metal fencepost from the back of the jeep and wades in, whacking at both bulls indiscriminately, attempting to separate them. Bulls do have extremely thick skulls. Carol is screaming, her children are wailing, my brother and I are leaning on the gate laughing hysterically. And my dad is upset. 'Don't hit OUR bull. Hit the other one. Stop it, Anna Carolyn!' Now, let me emphasize again that both bulls were pure black, and, being brothers, identical in appearance. Except for that strategically placed white tuft, Champ has marking his privates. So my dad grabs my mom to stop her from hitting the bulls, who weren't paying any attention anyway, and GETS DOWN ON HIS HANDS AND KNEES in the middle of a bullfight to attempt to ascertain which bull was Champ. This was as momumentally stupid as it sounds. Carol is wailing and wringing her hands, my mom is standing there looking irritated at the stupidity of it all, and my brother and I are laughing hysterically (which only upsets mom further.) 'Hit that one!' my dad yells, scrambling around on all fours, attempting to avoid getting trampled. Without further prompting, my mom starting laying about with that fence post and finally succeeds in separating the two animals. She sticks a feed bucket in front of Champ - and the food completely distracts him from any thoughts of passion. The crisis is averted. Carol is babbling in relief. My brother and I are still giggling, which earns us further dirty looks from mom. Meanwhile, my dad has decided that crawling through a bullfight was, indeed, monumentally stupid and he is never going to do that again. He's going to make certain it isn't necessary. He rummages around in the back of the jeep. He is going to paint our name on our bull. Given that Champ's nose is in the feed bucket, he uses the end that is available. He takes the white spray paint and begins to letter his last name across the bull's butt. My maiden name was Moore. A bull's butt is only so big. He ran out of room for the last two letters. Yes, do the math, my father wound up painting the word 'MOO' across our bull's butt. I am not making this up. Thank god spring rain and attrition removed most of the lettering by July. � � � 
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