Talking bull - the curious tale of the talking bullock
Denis' old Hereford bullock has developed an unusal talent in this week's Lighten Up.
A bullock on the farm has recently started talking to me.
And by talking, I don't mean talking like you or I might if we met at Kanturk mart - for that would be crazy.
No, I mean communicating through a series of grunts, snorts and other noises.
Nasal actions mostly, that can be easily understood as words, particularly by an experienced farmer like myself.
Anyhow, the talking craic started simply enough, with a few grunts from the bullock being understood by myself.
Now, I can have a full-blown conversation with the steer, and he, in return, can understand my ramblings.
Although he claims that my west Cork accent, or "dialect", as he puts it himself, can be hard to understand, particularly when I ramble on a little too long or throw in a bit of Irish.
For while my bullock has a fair understanding of English, his Irish is atrocious.
It's uafásach.
I asked him the other day what life was like as a bullock on the farm, and he was very informative indeed.
He told me that the grass was always greener on the other side. "Literally," says he.
"I have been across the boundary ditch on numerous occasions," my bullock recalled, "and I have found that your grass, Denny, is not always up to the quality or digestibility of your neighbour's."
"What do you mean bullock?" says I, for I wasn't quite getting a grasp of what he was saying.
"It isn't as sweet," says he bluntly.
"And sure, what can I do about it?" I declared.
"Well, lime would be a good start," says my knowledgeable bullock, with what I detected was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
Yerra, lime is too expensive, but I took note of what the bullock had to say, none the same. For what's good for the goose is also good for the gander.
The bullock has also said that the outwintering malarky isn't half as good as I think it is.
"It might be fine for you to think that you are one with nature," says he. "But the winter is no joke."
"And what about the hair on your back?" says I. "Aren't you well protected from the rain?"
"And what about the hair on your own back?" says he. "And you still wear a coat?!"
Sure, I had no answer for that. My bullock was talking sense and 'twas well I knew it.
"No," says he. "Outwintering would be fine for us cattle if your farm was in New Zealand. But alas, we are a long ways from New Zealand Denny boy," my bullock rightly pointed out, twisting his hoof in the direction of that great nation.
And again, I took on board what he had said. I promised that I would have a shed put up in the coming years.
Indeed, I gave the bullock my word.
And he thanked me too, for as he correctly pointed out, "None of us are getting any younger."
"Sure enough, bullock," says I.
Overall, I'm glad to say that my bullock is happy enough with life on the farm.
"You could be a lot worse," he said one day when I had asked him about my own ability as a farmer.
"Despite all your many faults and failings," says he, "You do your best with the meagre tools at your disposal."
And then, as he usually does, he turned his back on me and returned to tearing at an old sod of grass.
The devil the fear of my Hereford bullock. He has his head well screwed on.
