my husband, the matador

So there we were, riding through one of the pastures in a Gator, taking notes on which heifers were where, making sure that all the girls were where they were supposed to be. 

Like you do.

The sun was bright, the air was warm. 

It smelled like dirt and spring. 

Chris stopped to write down the numbers of some cows. 

But then one, which was strangely larger than all the rest, started making a noise.

Like, a grunting noise. 

A loud grunting noise. 

Very, very loud. 

And angry. 

Very, very angry. 

"What's with her?" I said, seated calming in the Gator.

"Oh, that's not a her," Chris said. "It's a he."

"I'msorrywhat?" I said. 

"A bull."

"A bull?!" I screeched, now cowering behind the dog in a corner, rolled up into a small ball. 

"I mean, a bull?" I whispered, trying to act as nonchalant as a grown woman trying to decide if she could outrun a one-ton animal can be.

 Just in case you were confused, this is my husband, smiling, while standing NOT THAT FAR AWAY from the very animals matadors and picadors make their way into rings to fight.  The animals that trample people who try to run with them every year. The ones that men make millions of dollars just trying to hang onto for eight lousy seconds. 

"Don't you, like, I don't know, think we should LEAVE?" I said in a voice three octaves higher than normal. "I have on a pink sweatshirt. Pink is basically red. What if he charges me? What if he charges you? How do you know what to do? You always said every dairyman knows someone who's been killed by a bull, and now it's going to be us, and I'm not ready to be dead yet, and we're all going to die!"

Or something like that. 

"Hold my clipboard," he said.

And then, picking up a piece of pipe, presumably to protect himself, people, HE CHARGED THE BULL, yelling and hollering and waving his hands while I basically laid down in the grass and died of a heart attack.

To be fair, I actually looked more like this. 

The bull looked like this. 

That is to say, he turned tail and ran away. 

"CHRISTOPHER!" I squealed.

"You have to show the bull who's boss," he said, walking back and picking up his clipboard, like a scene from 24 where Jack Bauer turns his back and walks away while an entire country blows up and goes down in flames behind him. "You have to be the alpha male. If you start getting scared of him instead of him being scared of you, it's time to sell him."

And with that, he went back to work.

Me? I'm still hiding behind the dog. Let me know when it's safe to come out.

{Disclaimer: We know you know this but . . . bulls are actually very dangerous. Chris and the other folks at the dairy follow well-outlined protocols on how to interact with bulls, how to protect themselves from bulls both in the pasture and in a pen, and how to know when a bull is just mean and ornery enough that he needs to be sold rather than endanger others. Safety, of course, is key.}