Georgie is getting bull-headed.
When I was a little girl set on having my own way, Lee, who was elderly and from the Deep South, used to tease me, “Sail’n, doan you go bein’ so bull-haided!” Then she’d duck her head in her lap and laugh with a great loving wheeze.
Georgie has more of an excuse for his behavior. He is a bull. Actually, a bullock, a young bull, as he is only 3 months old.
And just as little boys inevitably pick up sticks to make toy weapons, young bulls start bashing things with their heads. It’s dominance play. This morning as I was milking Katika in her stanchion, Georgie, left behind in the cow stall to entertain himself, decided to show the mineral feeder who was boss. Crash! Tail up… dance back on stiff legs… dart in… head down again… Bash!
This will only get worse. By 18 months old, the favorite daily activity of Hugh Grant, my last bull, was to up-end the water trough. A 70-gallon trough — when filled it weighed a hefty 560 pounds to his roughly 800. Not a problem. Even in deep snow Hughie would simply eye The Enemy, flex his powerful neck, lower his head, and bam. With a few charges he’d flip the heavy trough, and then push it victoriously through the snow far out into the pasture. Each day I’d have to wade through the drifts, drag it back, and refill it. Eventually I had the trough wrapped in chains looped around and locked to the wooden fence. It rarely mattered. Hughie had all day for his happiest game. Bash! Crash!
Listening to Georgie this morning, I sighed.
“Doan you go bein’ so bull-haided!”