It was amazing. Mrs. Delores Bjorkbom had overheard her husband talking to his cows. It wasn’t human talk like “How are you doing, Daisy?” or “You’ve got lots of milk today, Bessie.” This was pure cow talk. It was a language she did not recognize. Nor had she ever heard anything like it in her life. How she wished she had some devise on her to record it. It was phenomenal.
Word got out. Barnaby Bjorkbom was a cow whisperer. He was more than a cow whisperer; he spoke cow language. Next thing it was in all the papers.
Delores confronted her husband. “We know you communicate with cows in an intelligent fashion. I have invited the Press here next Thursday afternoon for a demonstration.”
Barnaby complied. The Press, plus a few stragglers, arrived. Mr. Barnaby Bjorkbom walked out into a meadow of cows. Cameras began rolling. Dorothy Pinkham of the Billingworth Press probably got the clearest recording. It is transcribed below:
J’kjdgf’;kllj ;ljksafs;lkhgf asf’;lkdg;lk[pkehymgd. Tjoplok[po ;lket. Y;mlq ;kljlkj; loikre sdflkngpe er r lq. Ddf’;l’;re;m;l, k;kjlsjdgp pkjjiohert m pkjkj; ojgkjfgl;kjslf;k poortm ‘lkkl;lk;lkplp r dflkj jk’lgs k; moof kjnlk;jnfsd ls.
“Stunning. Absolutely stunning,” declared the editor of the Daily Sun. “As Mr Barnaby Bjorkbom spoke, all the cows looked up from their grazing, wide-eyed. They were engrossed in his every word.”
Ferdinand was the most selfish cattle beast in the herd. For example, when the cattle were all driven through a gate into a fresh pasture, every animal would begin to eat the grass just inside the gate. Not so, Ferdinand.
Ferdinand would stroll to the far end of the field away from all the other beasts. That way he wouldn’t have to share. He had all the fresh grass in the world. Several days later, by the time the herd reached the far end of the field they would say to one another, “Where has our grass gone? How come there is no long grass here in the field? Someone selfish must have been eating it.”
That is why Ferdinand was the fattest bull in the herd (and therefore the first to go to the slaughter house).
The only way that Nathan could see to get onto the mountain track was to slide down a steep bank. He did that. It was a lot easier than he thought. He was now on the mountain path. It seemed to be a clay track that wound in a wiggly line. Not too steep, but not very wide. In fact it was quite thin. Nathan wanted to go down the mountain, not up.
As he turned to face downhill, Nathan saw a giant, ferocious bull blocking the path several hundred yards below. At least he thought it looked ferocious. In fact it was quietly ambling up the path towards him. There was no way that Nathan would try to squeeze past. He turned to go uphill – and fairly fast!
Suddenly the path ended and there was a low bank to jump up to get to another path. Nathan thought perhaps the bull might not be able to jump that far up over the bank. By now, the bull had noticed Nathan and was starting to run towards him. Nathan tried to leap up the bank but didn’t make it. He tried again. His third attempt was equally unsuccessful. The bull was almost upon him.
And that is how Nathan ended up standing on his bedside table in the middle of the night trying to leap up his bedroom wall.
It’s been an utter tragedy. The whole village is in shock. Harry Dennison has been gored to death by his bulls. If anyone knew how to handle bulls it was Harry Dennison.
Harry had bred and handled bulls for a good fifty years. He’d started out with just the one cow and bull, and now it could just about be said that every bull in the county was from Harry’s stock. I suppose you could say that being gored to death by bulls is a fitting enough finale to such a (excuse the pun) bull studded life.
But the shock of it all. It’s going to affect the whole area. It’ll be a huge funeral. And getting gored by out of control bulls must be the goriest thing you can imagine. Those horns will rip open a man’s chest and stomach before you can blink. And the foot stamping on the head. And the tossing. And a bull doesn’t give up; one whiff of blood, for a mad bull in a mood, and you might as well kiss your arse goodbye.
Gored to death. I’m sorry to keep repeating it, but I’m profoundly shocked. Shocked.
What’s that? Oh! Oh dear. Harry Dennison wasn’t gored to death by bulls at all. All he said was that after fifty years he’s bored to death by bulls.