Bulls and Vows
My neighbor called to say that a couple of my bulls were visiting his cows.
He raises registered Angus cattle so my outsider bloodlines were not welcome in his herd.
I needed to get them out of there now.
Time was of the essence for me, too.
I was getting ready to sell beef and lamb at the weekly Great Falls farmers market and then make a mad 100-mile dash to an important wedding.
Suddenly, those preparations included bringing those randy bulls home.
Extracting males from females is never easy, especially when the females are newly acquainted, exotic, potentially romantic partners.
My bulls were not interested in a lifetime commitment.
No wedding vows would be uttered.
But they intended to remain hopelessly devoted to those cows through thick and thin, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health -- at least until the cows stopped smelling so enticing.
I knew I would need some help to break that bond.
I asked a friend who met all of the necessary criteria – horse savvy, bull savvy and available right then.
He pulled up within the hour.
It takes some finesse to sort bovines from a herd.
Precise geometry is involved.
The horse angles into the bull’s personal space while offering relief in the desired direction.
Moving one bull is relatively easy – the agile horse can change pressure points quickly.
Moving three or more creates a herd so they all generally want to move together.
Two is the hardest number to move.
Each chooses his own way and typically that way is back to the cows.
The geometry becomes fluid and fast.
No doubt, a mathematical equation could be written to describe herding two bulls, but it would involve a lot of variables.
Five hours plus nine creek crossings multiplied by hundreds of equine ducks and turns plus 12 gates plus a couple of holes in fences equaled two of my bulls contentedly investigating my yearlings at home while we unsaddled the horses.
I still had time to prepare for the next day’s farmers’ market and then spend the night celebrating my friends’ declaration of commitment.
If ever an event exemplified Montana’s agricultural values, this wedding was it.
My daughter, Abby, and I drove down a twisty gravel road marked only with balloons to a vibrant meadow with a stunning mountain backdrop.
The venue included hay bales and 2x4s for seating and an arch made from horseshoes as the focus.
The bridal party rode up in a horse trailer.
Family and friends from across 600 miles of Montana knew and visited with one another until the wedding organizer had to admonish the guests to sit down so the wedding could start.
Three times.
The guests kept circling back together.
The bride and her father arrived in a horse-drawn carriage.
She wore her great-grandmother’s gown.
The groom and his groomsmen wore black cowboy hats and boots.
The wedding officiant needed to scurry along because a thunderstorm threatened.
Those of us from drought-stricken areas inhaled the welcome scent of rain.
Promises of devotion in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer were made to last a lifetime, not a heat cycle.
The reception dinner included delicious brisket and pulled pork.
A couple of uninvited people who would have had a hard time naming either the bride or the groom stood in line for the free meal and nobody asked them to leave.
Among the wedding gifts stood an agile horse.
The band played long into the night.
Each of us in this 400-head herd reinforced our bonds in celebration of people we all love – well, except for the wedding crashers, but they tried.
The mathematical equation was simple: two individuals plus vows became one lifelong partnership.