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The Rodoe      concluded

 I watch them through the tall metal railings and get a sense of just how huge these animals are. They are all colours, rich browns and creams, and they all have horns. I hardly notice the man in a cowboy hat standing nearby until he says 'Hi' and when I smile and reply, "Big chaps aren't they" , he looks at me a little strangely.
    "Where are you from then?"
    "England."
    He nods, mystified I think by my use of the word 'chaps' since to a Canadian cowboy this means leather riding trousers.
    I ask him a few questions about the bulls and it turns out that he's their keeper. It's his job to look after them and transport them from one rodeo to another.
    "They have a good life I reckon" he says, "If they w eren't travelling around to rodeos with me, they'd be hamburger meat. Just a few minutes work once a week and then the rest of the time spent grazing with their friends in pasture."
     "You've saved them from the slaughter house then."
    "You bet!"
    He can see he's got me interested now, so very casually he invites me to climb into the bull pen; with him of course. I decide it's time to ask this man's name - it's Brad. This gives me confidence, it's a great name.
"They won't hurt you with me around. They trust me see. They know me."
Well I don't know this man but I trust him instinctively and without hesitation I climb over the eight foot railings and join him in the middle of the pen. This is either an extremely brave or extremely foolish thing to do. At the time this doesn't occur to me. I'm just thrilled to have been given the opportunity to be so close to these magnificent beasts. And my heaven they are close. They are even bigger now as they circle us in a constant melee of jostling and mounting.
    "They're a bit psyched-up still from the bronco riding" he reassures me. The bulls continue to circle us and Brad names them all, pointing out their various markings and horn shapes. I can tell he likes these animals and respects their great power and peculiar beauty. I would very much like to touch one of them but decide that this is out of the question in their present state of restlessness.
    Eventually it's time to leave the pen, and after thanking Brad, I go in search of George and the others. I am childishly excited to tell them where I've been and what I've learned.
    Later on at the ranch, George gives me a big hug and calls me 'the bull whisperer'. And how does that make me feel? As special as a star in the night sky or a flower in the desert.

                            END