My Angus now 'identifies' as a Hereford
Denis' Hereford bullock has been the pride of his farm since he bought him last year.
You cannot believe how excited I was last Friday morning. I ran from the house like a giddy schoolboy.
Clutched in my hand was the Hereford Breed Society Journal for 2024.
Hot off the press, it had, for the first time since its inception, featured the name of Mr Denny Lehane.
I had made the big time. I was finally somebody.
Two stories of mine, printed here in this wonderful newspaper last year, had been selected for inclusion in the prestigious society publication. I was thrilled!
I was there featured alongside the greats in the business, writing about my troubles keeping cattle and, in particular, my adventures with my beloved Hereford bullock.
I ran to the round feeder where I knew I would find him, and with hands trembling and words fumbling, I tried to explain, as best I could, the significance of what had taken place.
My Hereford understood for sure. For the Hereford, along with being a superior beast in every regard, has a head on his shoulders to match Einstein himself.
Even while chewing the cud, he has a mental understanding of things far greater than you or I could possibly comprehend.
In the cattle fraternity, the Hereford is surely Robert Oppenheimer - a fellow who knows all the right buttons to press.
Anyhow, chewing the cud vigorously, my 'champion' took board everything I had to say.
With the good news delivered, I returned to the house to once again peruse over the manuscript in all its glorious detail.
After a spell of reading and general daydreaming, I decided to take down my small bundle of cattle cards from over the fireplace.
I just wanted to look through them, to see for myself the wonderful HR printed so proudly on the blue card.
It's something I rarely do, for 'tis rarely I have a Hereford. I was on top of the world.
I poured myself a drop of something strong in order to celebrate.
There is nothing like staring at the 'HR' printed on a cattle card. It's the icing on the cake.
And then I came to the special card.
There it was now. His number. His date of birth, my God, I thought, how time is fleeting by.
And to the back of the card, where the name of the previous owner, a man from west along the road, was printed.
My Hereford was a proud son of Beara. A part of the country that God blessed with scenic beauty that cannot be matched from here to Las Vegas.
'Twas an emotional morning.
Anyhow, next, I returned to the front of the card, searching for the wonderful HR abbreviation - the two letters that symbolise everything.
But shock! Horror! Dismay! No HR did I see, only AA!
"There must be a mistake!" I roared to myself.
In desperation, I scrambled through the rest of the cards to see if my eyes had been deceiving me.
But alas, it was no mistake.
My bullock. My pride and joy. The first Hereford I had ever purchased, was actually an Angus!
He had the look of a Hereford. He even walked like a Hereford, but all along, the card (the thing that must be obeyed) stated that he was an Aberdeen Angus.
And not, you understand, that I have anything against the Angus. The Angus is a wonderful animal, too.
It's just that I love the Hereford.
Like going to a fancy restaurant and ordering turnips instead of cabbage, I simply prefer one over the other.
I was now distraught. I rushed to the back door. I needed air.
Outside, my world was now crumbling. I couldn't face the field again, so I raced to the pub instead.
"Give me a pint!" I roared on my arrival, "Don't I lose my head entirely!"
I was inconsolable with grief. I needed a drink.
Sensing my deep unhappiness, the bar owner pulled me to one side in an effort to diagnose the problem, and perhaps offer a solution I told him of my distress on finding out that my Hereford was actually an Angus.
"How can I tell him?" I wailed. "He believes he's a Hereford. I believe he's a Hereford. And you would too, if you saw him."
"Yerra," says the barkeeper, "That's no problem."
"Really," says I, throwing back my drink as if it were water.
"If the bullock thinks he's a Hereford, well then a Hereford is what he is."
"But," says I, "What about the card?"
"To hell with that rubbish," he replied. "That's only mumbo-jumbo.
"It's all about being yourself nowadays. If the bullock identifies as a Hereford he can be one."
I still didn't quite grasp the meaning of the thing, so the barman went on.
"Look," says he. "You probably identify as a hardworking and prosperous farmer?"
"Yes, I do," I replied.
"Well, it doesn't matter then if half the county thinks you are a lazy sod. If you think you are grand, well, then you are."
"So, my Angus is actually a Hereford?"
"He is indeed," says the informative publican. "And you are a hard-working farmer, and I am a noble publican."
"And no doubt," says he. "Your Hereford is a champion too."
"He is all that," I said proudly responded, as I left the bar behind and returned home. Home to my mighty Hereford.
