The Terri-Bull Journey

Not too many bulls get to age 16. Admittedly, Hooves knew, there was margin for error on this estimate, but he stuck by it firmly. The more the other animals remarked "what a load of old bull" whenever the subject of his age was mentioned (which was often), the more determined he became to stand by not only his longevity, but also his worth. Only the chickens never expressed their doubt, instead flapping their wings and strutting about in a rather impressed way. But then, they would believe anything.

The general consensus around the farm was that his main purpose in life these days was hanging about the blue-green, stubbly paddocks grazing, preferably in the shade of a eucalypt. He had long since been replaced by the younger, more virile bulls when it came to a bit of hanky-panky. Young upstarts, in Hooves' opinion.

Early one morning, as he watched the ladies make their way in orderly procession to the milking shed, a lacy mist shrouding their haunches, Hooves had an epiphany. He would be the hero of Smitho's farm. But why stop there? He would be the hero of Dubbo, the hero of the whole Western Plains! There followed many days of planning. By Tuesday a fortnight later he had the last details worked out. He would reach his destination by travelling on one of the live-export ships, which transported cattle from Australia all over the world; he would be there just before his birthday. It was brilliant!

And so it was that the next time a cattle truck rattled and bumped its way from the highway up the long gravel driveway, he had contrived to be in the holding pen near the house, along with a select group of the younger ladies. He tried to look inconspicuous, a task made difficult by the hard stares and sideways shuffles he elicited, suspected as he was, despite his age, of dishonourable intentions.

"Fear not ladies, I am going to Pamploma", he proclaimed, puffing out his chest. "I am going to represent our country by running with the Spanish bulls as a distinguished international visitor. I will do you all proud".

"Humph", scoffed Daisy-Bell. "A dangerous folly fuelled by testosterone overload, if you ask me".

No one was asking her, and she always did sound like an old heifer. Hooves ignored her even as general moos of consensus ululated up and down the ramp as they boarded the truck.

The passenger arrangements in the truck left a great deal to be desired; hot and dusty, too small by far, the spaces between the slats hardly enough for a decent view. It was cattle class! Still, he was sure things would improve on the ship, and certainly in Spain, where he would undoubtedly be greeted with a red carpet and treated like royalty. There wasn't even anything to eat - he was glad he was not paying.

After a long, hot, uncomfortable journey they at last arrived at the docks, where things were even worse! The dock was a terrifying ordeal. He tried his best to calm the ladies, despite the pounding of his own heart and an almost overwhelming urge to charge. He would not lower himself to that kind of behaviour, determined to remain the gallant gentleman despite serious provocation - crowds and crowds of cattle, noise, jostling, shouting, cramped conditions, lack of food, cattle prods (cattle prods!), the smell of death and fear. It was a red rag to a bull.

True to his goal, he sent out word among the masses of his desire to know which ship was going to Spain, for which purpose he shamelessly utilised the services of Daisy-Bell. It was well known that Daisy-Bell (among other things) was the one to speak to if you wanted the whole farm to know your business. "Don't tell anyone", he added, to ensure the widest possible coverage.

During the interminable wait which ensued, various whispers and rumours found their way back to him. The message was predominantly that there was only one ship. They were all going to be crammed onto it. This was unbelievable, but unfortunately turned out to be true.

During the nightmare sea voyage, many of his contemporaries fell like dominoes, never to get up. Poor Hooves tried his hardest to keep his spirits up, imagining himself a matador in red cape, sword in hoof, the crowd cheering and calling for blood. (Or was it he who was meant to charge the matador? - he wasn't quite sure). He took Daisy-Bell under his wing, so to speak, and whispered sweet nothings to her as they braced against each other, staggering, working to maintain their precarious foothold as they pitched and rolled alarmingly on the unrelenting seas.

Sadly, Hooves became just another statistic in the ongoing tragedy of Australia's live export trade. He passed quietly to the Greener-Grass-on-the-Other-Side-of-the-Fence late one lightning-rent night somewhere in the South China Sea. Daisy-Bell and the others fared no better; those who survived the voyage ended their days as grain-fed Australian beef served at a premium price at the best restaurants in Tokyo.

And so ends the tragic and moo-ving tale of Hooves.


863 words - (woops, not a rodeo bull and the tragedy wasn't exactly in Pamploma...! A donation made against this transgression!)