Herdin' The Bull
This John Kerry quagmire 'bout his Vietnam memories versus the Swift Vets' evidence (something Beldar calls the Tar Baby strategy and fisks the new LA Times piece) is remindin' me more 'n more of how you herd a bull. A lot of bull in this case. And believe me, I know a thing or three about herdin' bulls.
Yeah, yeah, I know--I look like I'm just a little guy and I'm supposed to herd sheep (who can be real pissants when they wanna' be) not bulls. But what are ya' gonna' do when you're a half-grown pup on a CA ranch and the next-door-ranch bull gets loose to wander all over the landscape?
There he was--lost and horny in the middle of our yard, lasciviously eyeing the cows in the next rancher's field. AHM could have tried calling the owner (which you should know from previous readin' she wasn't likely to do) but the bull would be in the field (and the cows) by the time he arrived. What to do, what to do…
Send in the cavalry.
Dad and me were sittin' on the porch watchin' it all and layin' bets on how long it would take the bull to find a way into the field with the cows who (being dumb, not-even-rich cows) were sashayin' their butts all over the place and makin' "come hither" cow noises. (I could probably do a Jessica Cutler riff here, but 1) it's already been done and 2) AHM doesn't want me goin' all "wonkie.") Anyhow, AHM barged out of the house, opened the porch gate, and said "Get the bull." Then she marched over to the gate leading to a small field away from the cows and pointed. "In here, fellas."
Get the bull? Who the shit was she kiddin'? We'd never herded anything except other dogs in the show ring (and they mostly followed us anyway). But that didn't seem to bother Dad at all. He went off like a shot, straight for the bull's nose. Well, damn, what was I supposed to do except follow him? I figured I'd take the end without the horns, though.
That bull didn't know what hit him. Maybe he thought the mosquitoes-from-hell were on steroids or somethin'. He lowered his head to eyeball Dad and got a nip that made him snort crap into Dad's face. While he wasn't lookin' I took a shot at the nearest heel. That made him move forward, but he swung his head around to see what the hell had teeth in the general vicinity of his balls. Dad was right at him again, makin' him turn back to the open gate, so I gave him another reminder on his other heel. He charged forward and Dad leaped up and sideways a few feet closer to the open gate. I took another swipe. Nose. Heel. Nose. Heel. Nip, nip, nip, nip. We were getting' the hang of this herdin' thing.
By now the bull is bellowing and the cows are wailing. Damn, they could wail! Don't buy in to that "cattle are lowing" business, by the way, 'cause there's nothin' "low" about the sound of a bunch of cows in heat being deprived of a potential group lay. Of course just for good measure, we're tellin' that stupid bull to get the hell out of our yard at the top of our lungs. With all the racket we were makin' you'd think someone would have showed up to find out what the hell was going on.
Well, no one showed to help, so it was up to Dad and me. Between the three of us, we left quite a churned up track in the grass, trampled the ground myrtle, uprooted some impatiens, knocked a branch or two off the dogwood tree and pretty much flattened a Rose of Sharon bush. But the final score was terriers=2, bull=0.
Let's see a fe-lying do that!
The Swift Vets seem to be doin' the same thing to Kerry. Nip, nip, nip, nip.
PS. We got rib bones for dinner. And this time they had lots of meat on 'em.
PPS. Beldar links dug up at Instapundit.
posted by Harrison at 11:46 AM
Yeah, yeah, I know--I look like I'm just a little guy and I'm supposed to herd sheep (who can be real pissants when they wanna' be) not bulls. But what are ya' gonna' do when you're a half-grown pup on a CA ranch and the next-door-ranch bull gets loose to wander all over the landscape?
There he was--lost and horny in the middle of our yard, lasciviously eyeing the cows in the next rancher's field. AHM could have tried calling the owner (which you should know from previous readin' she wasn't likely to do) but the bull would be in the field (and the cows) by the time he arrived. What to do, what to do…
Send in the cavalry.
Dad and me were sittin' on the porch watchin' it all and layin' bets on how long it would take the bull to find a way into the field with the cows who (being dumb, not-even-rich cows) were sashayin' their butts all over the place and makin' "come hither" cow noises. (I could probably do a Jessica Cutler riff here, but 1) it's already been done and 2) AHM doesn't want me goin' all "wonkie.") Anyhow, AHM barged out of the house, opened the porch gate, and said "Get the bull." Then she marched over to the gate leading to a small field away from the cows and pointed. "In here, fellas."
Get the bull? Who the shit was she kiddin'? We'd never herded anything except other dogs in the show ring (and they mostly followed us anyway). But that didn't seem to bother Dad at all. He went off like a shot, straight for the bull's nose. Well, damn, what was I supposed to do except follow him? I figured I'd take the end without the horns, though.
That bull didn't know what hit him. Maybe he thought the mosquitoes-from-hell were on steroids or somethin'. He lowered his head to eyeball Dad and got a nip that made him snort crap into Dad's face. While he wasn't lookin' I took a shot at the nearest heel. That made him move forward, but he swung his head around to see what the hell had teeth in the general vicinity of his balls. Dad was right at him again, makin' him turn back to the open gate, so I gave him another reminder on his other heel. He charged forward and Dad leaped up and sideways a few feet closer to the open gate. I took another swipe. Nose. Heel. Nose. Heel. Nip, nip, nip, nip. We were getting' the hang of this herdin' thing.
By now the bull is bellowing and the cows are wailing. Damn, they could wail! Don't buy in to that "cattle are lowing" business, by the way, 'cause there's nothin' "low" about the sound of a bunch of cows in heat being deprived of a potential group lay. Of course just for good measure, we're tellin' that stupid bull to get the hell out of our yard at the top of our lungs. With all the racket we were makin' you'd think someone would have showed up to find out what the hell was going on.
Well, no one showed to help, so it was up to Dad and me. Between the three of us, we left quite a churned up track in the grass, trampled the ground myrtle, uprooted some impatiens, knocked a branch or two off the dogwood tree and pretty much flattened a Rose of Sharon bush. But the final score was terriers=2, bull=0.
Let's see a fe-lying do that!
The Swift Vets seem to be doin' the same thing to Kerry. Nip, nip, nip, nip.
PS. We got rib bones for dinner. And this time they had lots of meat on 'em.
PPS. Beldar links dug up at Instapundit.
posted by Harrison at 11:46 AM
1 Comments:
The Grouchy Old Yorkie Lady said...
HAH! Harrison, this had me laughing out loud. Anyone who has ever owned a terrier understands precisely what this looked like. My boys routinely take on situations much larger than seems reasonable, but they are completely fearless. (Unless there is thunder and/or lightning involved, but we won't go there.) And they, too, yell about whatever it is at the top of their lungs.
You made my day. Thanks.