Silage out for Billy and the girls, new hay for little Holly and Alice. The little girls need enticing into the feeding pen and closing in so that I don’t need to worry when driving the digger in for the silage. I have folk in at the bunkhouse, so Billy and the gang are held back in the Apron so that the guests don’t meet with 3/4 ton of highland beef on the road as they negotiate the potholes.
Billy surprises me by greeting me at the gate to the yard in the morning. His presence begs the question of how he got out. Fortunately, the yard gate has blown shut with the wind, preventing the old boy from creating mayhem in the feed shed. He stands in the trees at the side of the road, to my surprise not attempting to work his way through as I ease the quad into the yard. His passivity forms an invitation. I realise that my contact with the animals is now mediated by feed that I spread for them every morning: and that their contact with me is mediated through their competition over access to the food that i am bringing. We relate on a more functional level at this time of the year than at others, when the animals have more to occupy them and the wind is not scything across the rocks the way it is today.
With Bill, therefore, before taking Morag her medicated nuts, before filling the rack for the little girls or scattering chookie corn, I close the gate and walk over to my bull. He stands as I thought he would, puts his head to to the side as I approach. I open my arms wide to scratch his spine and his flank. His coat is dry, he has chosen a good spot, sheltered in the trees here, canny lad.
Shortly he will follow the quad down the road to compete with the others at the trough. I will discover the gate that has blown open in the wind and contain him once more, like a domesticated animal.
We know, however, that he is a king.
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