I never thought I’d own a bull. In fact, when I first floated the idea to a co-worker a few years back, she basically sneered and said I was not the kind of beefy, manly tub of stupid that could anticipate the nuances of bull behavior and do whatever it is portly rednecks do to keep their bull in line. But we decided to have milk cows, and you can’t milk them until they calve, and I really don’t want to pay some douche with straws full of frozen semen to drive 400 miles to dick around with my cow’s pussy. So we bought a little Dexter Bull to mate with our Dexter/Kerry cow.

For a long time, I thought he was going to be too short for the job. The cow would back up to him and shoot a stream of piss in his face. He’d curl his lip back and sniff the cork, so to speak, then attempt to mount her. He kept sliding off, and she’d round on him and hop on his back, as if to demonstrate the proper technique. But she was just being impatient. He eventually got much taller, but even prior to that, his dick grew to the point he could just about scratch his chin with it. His mount was still pretty shaky when he got bingo the first time.

He lives in a pen with a steer, and they’re an item. If you separate them, they will bellow and wail until you reunite them, except when the cows are in estrus , in which case, the bull breaks the fence down with his horns to go get himself a little aromatherapy and maybe a few seconds of what looks like boulders trying to fuck.

One Sunday morning we woke up to see he’d gotten out, and hiked out to see where he’d gotten to. We found him on a farm adjacent to ours, eating some of their newly baled hay. I assumed some force would be required to get him home, and I popped him across the nose with a small switch.


He blew at me and shook his head, and angrily ran across the road to the Baptist church, where people were just arriving for Sunday school. One woman had already made it to the vestibule door by the time he got to the parking lot, but everyone else was forced to retreat to the safety of their cars. After he’d terrorized them adequately, he moved to the cemetery, where he began smashing the artificial flower arrangements and eating the real ones. My wife took over at this point because I was suffering from apoplectic paralysis.

She talked to him for awhile, put a dog leash on his halter, and led him home.

I’ll always wonder if we were the subject of the sermon that day.

my bull, Llewd.

my bull, Llewd.