How Not to Castrate a Bull

The pastures where about knee deep in hay and the weather was warm but not yet hot when dad asked me to get in the truck and go with him. It was in the early seventies and while I was strong my six foot frame had yet to fill in just yet.

That year my father had rented pasture from Mr. Scaggs on Indian Run Road. Dad wanted to pasture a few beef for the summer to butcher in the fall. However, after a few weeks the neighbors started complaining about our bull. It seems as though it had gotten out several times and may have bred one of the neighbor's cows. Country people are by and large a very forgiving lot but I guess having a cow bred by some roaming bull falls outside the conventional boundaries of hospitality.

My father's answer to this problem, as usual, was the least expensive.

I was completely unaware of any of this, my father often doled out information on a "need to know" basis. He seldom asked me to go anywhere with him and I was happy just to be riding in the truck with him that day. I had no idea what lay ahead.

Dad's old truck had only about a third of a muffler and the mud grip tires on the back whaled as the old truck would pick up speed. Between dad being hard of hearing and the noise of the truck it would have been impossible to carry on a conversation. Instead I entertained myself by listening to the change of pitch in the whining of the back tires as we glided around turns.

After dad parked the truck he told me the situation by employing lets say an economy of words. He then pulled this huge pair of clamps that looked more like bolt cutters from the back of the truck and we then made our way to the barn. Mr. Scaggs' place was neatly kept and I walked a few paces behind dad not knowing what I may encounter. I had learned log ago, with dad, it could be anything.

What we did encounter was something I have only witnessed once in my life.