I’m after a terrible few weeks of it. I’m worn out from chasing cattle. How I have the energy to write anything of substance is a mystery that would bamboozle the greatest minds in the land.
I’m shattered, I’m telling you. It’s in bed I should be, and not up until all hours composing literature.
My trouble started on a bright and breezy March evening about two weeks ago, when I spotted this badly bred weanling bull of mine in an outhouse munching ration, as if it were the cheapest feed in the country.
Naturally enough, my first reaction was to let out a roar, to startle the devil. And startle him I did. In a big way. For not only did he bolt from the house, but he managed to drag the electric fencer with him.
The clumsy oaf got himself tangled up in the fencer that had been in place on the wall with generations.
And away he flew, with the electric fencer like a saddle on his back, wires and cables hanging in all directions.
I gave chase, in an effort to save my fencer. Alas, it was in vain, for the guts of it were soon spilling across the yard. The bullock gone back to the bog, my fencer’s shocking days at an end.
I cried, naturally enough, looking at the carnage, but I cried all the more when I went to the co-op the following day, and found out the price of a new one.
Close on €1,000, I was told, before I keeled over. For this was the greatest shock of all. I needed a jolt from an operational fencer nearby to come round again.
“I’m shocked,” I said to the man behind the counter. “That’s savage money for a new fencer. The fencer is worth more than my cattle!”
And he agreed with me saying, “The world is gone mad entirely.”
There was nothing for it only to leave the store behind, and return home in an attempt to keep order without an electric current.
Now, while cattle can be stupid in a hundred different ways, when it comes to sniffing out a lack of electric shocks in a wire, they can be as quick as a hungry dog sniffing out a pound of sausages in your messages.
In no time at all, they were going through wires, knocking posts, clearing pallets and gates, every damn thing you could think of, by means of escape routes.
So for the past spell, it’s been nothing for me only running and racing after cattle.
Yes, while the Jersey cross bullock might not be flying high at the marts, give him an inch of the open road, and you will see him move faster than Tiger Roll.
In the finish, worn out from all the racing, I retired to the old shed up the yard.
And ’twas while in there, staring up at a hole in the roof, that I spotted an old battery fencer hanging off the rafters. Possibly left there by my ancestors.
Well, within two bangs of a fencer, I was back at the co-op store, inquiring if they had a battery to fit the ancient apparatus.
To my utter amazement, they did, and for €20, I was back in business. The shock running through the line, my farm once again as secure as Fort Knox.
I was relieved to have overcome the crisis, but it will take me a long time to get over the price of a new fencer, for it was absolutely shocking.