Llewd’s nuts dropped slowly and horribly from his body after I banded him. If I had a veterinary licence I’d have been dosing myself with ketamine once I began to witness what I’d done to the poor bastard. The kit promised a quick removal of the nards, and admittedly the subjects of their study were younger, but old Llewd was reluctant to let go of his. He put up a fight. The result was verging upon gangrene when they finally sheared away while he was trying to fuck his daughter.

Let this be a lesson. A lesson I can’t discern, but a lesson nevertheless.

Llewd’s babys are uniformly beautiful and good natured, even if he fathers them on his children. In some breeder’s circles, it would have increased the value of his semen. But cattle breeders respond to a market governed by men who use airplanes as outhouses. If you trust your business to fuckheads like this, you will fail at barebones agriculture.

I have enclosed one of my wife’s photos of me trying to ingratiate myself with the product of Llewd’s hoary seed. It is a complicated game. I’ve found that if you try and tame calves too early, they develop a nasty intelligence that results in acres of damaged fences. If you tame them later, they trust you, and fences are just a formality.