The bull arrived a few weeks late for his conjugal visit, thanks to mud issues. His owner was rightfully nervous about getting the stock trailer stuck while moving him from the last harem . . . err . . . herd he serviced. The big boy’s here now though and settling in nicely.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, he’s the black one on the right with the huge head, a Limosin with what I’m told is an impressive pedigree. Our Jersey girl Rosie, on the left, doesn’t care how good he looks on paper. She likes him because he shares his corn. I like him because he’s mellow, mannerly, and throws small calves. (That last trait is farmer-speak for siring small calves, a situation that makes it easier on both the cow and newborn calf at birthing time.)

Our visiting bull’s quite sweet and manageable. I’m not nervous about entering his pasture, not even with a bucket of grain when the cattle are crowding up for their snacks. He backs up when I say so, and he stands patiently until I retrieve the feed pan and dump the grain in. But I’m still cautious, and I don’t turn my back on him. I just don’t. Just because. You can call me chicken. I just call it sensible.