Denis Lehane: Hats off to my Angus as he heads for the mart ring

It's time to bid farewell to my hat-wearing bullock and no doubt he will use his hat to shield a tear, as I will myself, when I tell him the sad news, writes our Auld Lehane

But now, alas, the time has come to bid farewell to my Angus and his hat.

I'm planning to take my bullock, who wears the hat, to Macroom Mart on Saturday.

He looks fine and plump now, with or without the hat.

His time of eating grass and wearing hats on this farm are numbered, I fear.

If you recall, I gave him the present of the hat way back in early January.

Back then, I figured offering him a hat was far cheaper than putting up a big shed.

And how right I was, for the hat protected him from the weather, it worked out tremendously well.

He outwintered in style. He looked like Frank Sinatra.

He was an Angus to be admired. A leader in his field.

And then, even after the wet winter had passed and the spring arrived, the hat remained.

Now offering the clever bullock protection from the sun, as well as the rain.

Honestly, you couldn't make it up.

There are no flies on my bullock, nor on me, and that's for sure.

He's using the head, just like every other person who wears a hat to protect themselves from the elements.

The only time I see my bullock without the hat nowadays is when we have visitors to the farm or at noon and 6pm.

So, bar general manners and in times of prayer, the hat stays put on his head, where the good Lord intended hats to go.

Yerra, he's like Brad Pitt from the movie Snatch, except he doesn't have a tendency to start fights.

That hat is as good as welded to his head.

He's like Jack Lynch, only without the pipe.

He's like Kojak, only without the lollypop.

He's like a lot of fellows, really, only he's a bullock.

But now, alas, the time has come to bid farewell to my Angus and his hat. And no doubt, now he will use his hat to shield a tear, as I will myself, when I tell him the sad news.

Yerra selling cattle is a desperately sad chore. It's like a divorce, really.

Our only hope now is that some kindly farmer will spot him, and purchase my Angus at Macroom Mart on Saturday, hat and all.

A farmer willing to pay big money in order to make him all the plumper again.

A farmer living on some dream farm back there in Drimoleague or someplace.

Yerra my farm, God bless it, isn't set up for finishing cattle, as I am allergic to buying ration.

It's grass all the way here.

And there comes a time in a bullock's life, when he desires, and indeed deserves, more.

"Wherever I lay my hat, that's my home," the great Paul Young used to sing long ago, back when we all wore hats and none of us had bald heads.

Well hopefully, after next Saturday's sale, my famous hat-wearing bullock will find a new home in a place where ration flows like water.

A place where he can lay his hat in comfort, a place where sweet grass is all they have on offer.

Someplace where my mad hatter of an Angus will go on to blossom and shine all the more.