Prince Greylegs

Prince Greylegs

The Fawlds boys were riding a cow and I ran to join them, but Dad grabbed me by the ear and pulled me back with such force my feet left the ground!

‘Look carefully,’ he said, ‘that’s no cow, it’s a bloody bull and get this into your thick head: never trust a Jersey bull!’

I could tell the difference between milking cattle easily enough, Friesians are black and white while Jerseys are a light tan colour. I never thought to look between its legs! This Jersey bull was pretty dark, so in my hurry to join my mates, I didn’t think of him as a Jersey, just as something to ride.

Maybe I still hadn’t learned, because when Dad had stopped his truck to yarn to Percy Symes, I jumped the fence to pick a few mushrooms. It wasn’t until I head the snort that I realised I was in the bull paddock! The brute was kicking up dust with his front hoof and shaking his head from side to side. I was on my way before I heard old Percy!

‘Run!’ he shouted.

The mushrooms slowed me down and the wires were too tight for me to nip through, so I had to abandon my collection to climb over the fence! I made it with time to spare, but the bull stood guard over my prize mushrooms and I knew I couldn’t retrieve them.

‘I told you never to trust Jersey bulls!’ Dad admonished later.

Twenty years later I was living in the hut I rented off Mrs. Matches and it was time tell her that I had just bought a small parcel of land along by the main road. She was pleased for me, and then she went quiet.

‘That property used to belong to Fred Robertson.’ She said. ‘He had a Jersey stud.’

‘Did he milk Jerseys?’ I asked.

‘Yes, we used to buy our milk from him.’ She replied. ‘We liked the cream on top, you don’t get cream like that from Friesians. We put on our porridge.’

‘So being a stud, he had a bull then?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes!’ Mrs. Matches replied. ‘He called it the Koromiko Stud. Prince Greylegs we called the bull, because he had thick, grey legs. But my gosh, he was an angry beast! We didn’t like him!’

‘Jersey bulls usually are.’ I replied knowingly.

‘When young Richard was walking along the road to catch the school bus or coming home,’ she explained, ‘Prince Greylegs would come charging up to the fence, bellowing and rumbling in his chest. Poor Richard didn’t know if it was a good idea to run or not! You know he’d had polio, so he couldn’t use his legs too well?’

‘Yes, I remember you told me.’ I replied. He had an obviously stiff neck too. ‘It’s a bit freaky with only seven wires between you and a raging bull!’

‘He always hurried to come home, and he was always frightened! We complained to old Fred, but he would say the bull was a big softie and he would put his arms around his neck and hug him!’

‘I wouldn’t do that for quids!’ I confessed.

‘Fred was proud when he won Best in Show with Prince Greylegs.’ Mrs. Matches continued. ‘For a few years he led the Grand Parade at the A&P show. Old Fred would puff his chest out marching like a soldier with Greylegs on the end of a white rope.’

‘Greylegs must have been quiet to be in the Grand Parade.’ I thought.

‘Well, yes, Fred trained him,’ she explained, ‘by leading him around and around the paddock day after day. Fred was a quiet, patient man.’

I could tell she was building up to something so I waited.

‘One day, Fred was late coming in for tea, so Ginny, his wife went out to call him.’ Mrs. Matches was serious now. ‘Prince Greylegs was standing at the gate close to the house. She was shocked when she noticed a piece of Fred’s shirt dangling from his horn. Ginny feared the worst, but was afraid to approach the bull or go into the paddock. Several times she called out to Fred but received no answer. She ran inside and rang the Bennetts and within five minutes, Artie arrived with his rifle. As he drove past, he saw Fred lying in the paddock, broken. He told Ginny that he thought Fred was probably dead and they had to get past the bull to get to him. Ginny told Artie to shoot him, which he did!’

‘What a tragedy for her to face up to!’ I said, rather shocked.

‘Ginny was brave, she rang Doc Trotter before she and Artie went down to Fred. The bull must have got him in the corner of the paddock! Poor Fred was ripped open and he had broken bones. Doc Trotter rang me and I went up to comfort Ginny and make cups of tea for everyone who called.’

‘Goes to show,’ I said, ‘never trust a Jersey bull, my Dad told me so many times!

‘We always said that too!’ Mrs Matches agreed. ‘Anyway the fancy Prince Greylegs ended up feeding the Bennett’s farm dogs! Dog tucker he was!’