How we got Abner, the sloped-headed knuckle-dragging bully, to change schools
No cows or bulls were hurt in the making of this story.
Sitting on a cow’s head in the back of a pickup truck while bombing down the highway
Now no bovines of any kind were hurt in the making of this story. Unless bulls crafted into tasty sausages, ground beef and delicious steaks are hurtful, then yes, bulls were hurt in the making of this story. So was Abner, but Abner was an asshole.
I was living with my cousin outside of a small Vancouver Island town. He rented a rancher house, a barn, a shed and a field. The barn etcetera was located behind a few houses down at the end of our gravel road we called Heartbreak Hotel for reasons that are none of your business. It was Brown’s Road. As it turns out, the field’s previous life was as an apple orchard. What remained was a half-dozen apple trees that produced the highest quantity of apples per branch known to man in the history of this universe.
The apples were big, round, sweet and grew so thickly on the branches, that they would snap from the weight. The cattle and horses loved to hang around under the trees for shade and the apples. The apple-loving cow produced the most delicious milk in autumn — once we jettisoned the pesky bulls.
We also fed them bales of clover because we were kind and appreciated the tasty milk.
A few trees produced the Airlie Red Flesh and a couple of others the Jona gold breeds. So, apples were ripening on the branch from the end of September to mid-November. Kept clean and in dry hay, apples could sit for months; we harboured a bounty.
My cousin, who I will refer to as “Karl,” to protect the guilty, was and still is approximately 10 years my senior. Karl took me, at age 17, to the cattle auction to purchase a cow for the young bulls he had bid on a few weeks prior. They were all Holstein-Hereford crosses. The bulls, like most young men, were full of shit (you know, bullshit).
Karl acquired her cheaply. We walked her up a plank and into the back of the pick-up truck. It was a blue 1979 Ford ¾ ton, regular cab, with a manual four-speed transmission and black leather bench seat. Karl coerced her into lying down in the box. He was as charming with the cows as he was with human women. I was instructed to sit on her head.
“She won’t be able to get up if she can’t lift her head.”
We called her “Cabot” (pr: Ca-bow) for reasons lost to me. It was a stupid name, but when we stood by the barn and bellowed “CABOT” loudly in A# on the musical sale, she ran to us like the Dickens.
Anyway, we bombed down the highway going at least the speed limit with me sitting on Cabot’s head and my curly brown locks blowing in the breeze. I was a veritable hair-band rock video model, except for the cow under me. Perhaps it was a metaphor for the rest of my life.
Another truck with three teenage girls in the back pulled up beside us at a red light. They laughed. I tried my best to pose like Eddie Van Halen or Prince (I invented duck lips), but at 17, I was stretching my modelling abilities. They drove off laughing into the vista of mountains and the temperate rainforest.
Once we arrived at the gate to the field, I got off Cabot’s head and Karl grabbed the rope that he had tied around her neck and led her into the field. The bulls went crazy kicking up a storm. As Cabot was full of milk they proceeded to suckle her with reckless abandon.
The bulls were named Stan and Abner, I coined them “Stabner.” Abner was the more rambunctious of the two. He may have been intellectually challenged. Certainly, he had attention deficit disorder and emoted a certain uncharming special needs-like air about him.
One morning, while in the barn measuring space to build an extra stall, Abner (you could hear him galloping) ran in and tried to gore Karl and me. We simultaneously leapt and grabbed onto an eight inch support beam which ran across and above us. In one smooth motion, Karl grabbed a 2 x 4 and swung it squarely between Abner’s eyes which sounded like a coconut falling out of the tree and landing on the concrete. Abner stopped, considered the situation for about 10 seconds, while blinking slowly, then turned dejected and meandered back to where he came from, pissed his plan of attack was usurped.
Another time, while I was shortcutting through the field, Abner came at me from my left. I sensed him like a poltergeist. I reached down grabbed two softball-sized rocks and threw them at the charging idiot. One rock cracked him on the nose and the other bounced off his right ear. The right earshot sent his few remaining neurotransmitters into a blizzard of activity, which caused him to zig right, zag left, and then dart straight into the woods crashing, kicking and bucking around like a madman, leaves and tree shrapnel were kicked up into the air, which triggered him further. Good riddance.
Nine months into the relationship with Stabner, Karl had had enough and sent the bastards to the butcher. Soon, we were in possession of the finest-tasting sausages, ground beef and steaks. Now, it was up to us to milk Cabot.
I milked her more gently than Stabner suckled her, so she was quite content to stand there letting me yank her utters, squeezing the index finger, followed by the middle finger, ring finger and then pinky, rinse and repeat.
Karl’s black and white cat not so creatively named “Beaumont,” would often come by for a friendly meow and a warm squirt. I always thought that she resembled a mini-Holstein-Hereford cross. She was great because she ate spiders.
I got the 5:00 PM shift, while Karl took the 5:00 AM shift, every day for a year.
There was nothing better than a fresh glass of warm milk with all the cream on top, a homemade slice of bread with fresh butter and a generous helping of peanut butter. Then 15 or so coffees. That would set you up for the day.
That’s the end of the story. But there was the time I raced George Stefanik across his prize bull’s corral, and I nearly died and worse I almost disappeared.
The bull that tried to kill me
If I remember correctly, I helped name Abner the Bull. I named him after this guy at school in rural Alberta, who hated me more than life itself, three years before the Stabner story.
Unlike the yearlings, George’s bull (Higgins) was a supreme being. He exuded more manhood than the entire Yellowhead County put together. The (I am guessing, here) 3000-pound beast pawed the dirt from atop his knoll, and snorted great steamy and snotty clouds from his garbage can lid-sized nostrils.
Abner, a classmate, was an auburn-haired sloped-headed knuckle-dragger and wanted to beat me to within an inch of my life. A couple of times we came to blows. He said goodbye to two teeth, and I sported a blackened eye. Abner had the hots for blonde-haired Stephanie and Stephanie had the hots for me. I was never the best-looking guy in school, but I held my own amongst the uglies. Abner was one of the top-shelf uglies, straight out of Inbreeding 101. His ears made him look like a Volkswagen Beetle with the doors left open. King Charles had nothing on this boy.
George, who became a good and trusting friend, was well known in those parts as the fastest runner of his age until I came along. Being born and raised 1000 kilometres west with better facilities and rich running culture, I developed into a fast 800-metre runner and sprinter. I clocked in several podium finishes in 2:20 to 2:24 at ages 12 and 13. But by the time spring had sprung in Central Alberta, I hadn’t run in nearly a year, except when in deep trouble.
Stephanie could clock a 2:30 and vomit like a champion. She always produced technicolour yawns after a race. There was nothing her parents or the doctor could do, so she carried on with the matter-of-fact grace of a hiccough. I held her hair back once. She appreciated it and gave me a vomitous-scented kiss on the cheek. Abner paid witness which caused his Volkswagen Beetle face to become redder than a Lamborghini Countach
.
At a party on George’s farm, the host offered to race me across Higgins’s corral. With about 20 kids from school on-site including Stephanie and Abner, I took him up on his offer. We had just brought in about 50 of George’s cows from the pasture and were resting up against the fence of Higgins’s corral — and believe me, when I say, “Higgins’s corral,” I mean it was Higgins’s corral — he owned it. The sun was just over the trees and Higgins was getting antsy, he could smell the 50 bodacious cows. He seemed to understand George’s offer to me, perhaps it was a party trick. Higgins was ready. He was a big black muscular bull with giant steer horns, looking like he was straight out of Pamplona.
George and I clamoured over the fence and ran for our lives across that corral. The kids were yelling up a cacophony cheering us on. George did a little side-step thing and I dropped him. What I did not know was that George was avoiding a sinkhole — he had the home-corral advantage. I slipped in and sank up to my chin into the warm, oozing slurry that bubbled there. The sinkhole was a rancid cocktail of mud, and Higgins’s excrement and urine. The sinkhole, like Abner, was full of shit. Higgins stopped short, fore legs splayed, put his face within inches of mine and snorted saliva all over me. That was unfair, as I was reaching below, searching for my lost shoe. I was defenceless, trying not to drink the foul liquid manure.
I tasted a salty morsel.
At that moment, I would rather have been searching for my lost shaker of salt in Margaritaville.
Once I pulled myself out — George, laughing himself hoarse — escorted me around the back of the house to where the water tank was kept. I stripped naked and he hosed me down with what felt like 1000 pounds per square inch of ice-cold, mineral-rich well water.
Then the party started.
Due to the episode with Higgins, Abner thought he had gained an advantage for Stephanie’s affection. Abner assumed that I looked like a horse’s ass, but not so. Stephanie was pink-faced having watched me get hosed down, you know, being a naked hair-band video rock star now.
Abner became terribly angry.
That was nearly as much fun as the time we rode George’s one-year-old Hereford bulls in a corral.
The time we nearly died riding yearling bulls
George had another party, but this time, he dared everyone — “any takers?” — to hop on one of his one-year-old bulls. They had short horns to grab onto but were not dangerously pointy yet. They were little guys who stood about waist height. They were small but as we found out, they could absolutely lose their minds if you hopped on them.
So, the trick is to lay face down on the back of the young bull, hold onto the horns and grip the body with your legs, to avoid falling off and being trampled to death. There were two dozen in the corral and they were crowded in shoulder to shoulder, nose to tail, waiting to be let out into the field. They were seriously amped up.
These teenage bulls harboured a pent-up desire to kick some serious ass.
Six of us took George up on his offer, Abner and Stephanie (who I saw were holding hands) were in the mix. The idea was to climb up onto the third rung of the fence, then sit on the top rung, swing your legs over and then plant both feet on the third rung from the inside. Once up then launch oneself forward. To fly like Superman onto your choice bull and hold on for dear life.
We did.
Chaos ensued.
Hooves, tails, and ears everywhere — yeehaw.
Amongst the flipping and splattering mud and tails, I was good for 35-40 seconds, and George won going 45-50 seconds.
Abner chose the same bull that I did. I waited until he was horizontal in the air, and then I flew at him (not at the bull), knocking the sloped-headed knuckle dragger out of the air. I landed on the most insane bull, gripped his horns and scissored him with my legs. Abner was taking a dirt nap underfoot. That is what you get when you hold Stephanie’s hand without my permission.
He landed with a resounding splat in the mud (and poo) between two bulls and took a couple of hoofs before rolling under the fence; Kharma, baby. Stephanie was good for over 30 seconds and jumped the fence with the biggest smile. So, did I.
The bush party was stellar that night. Supertramp, Billy Joel, and CCR filled the air around the bonfire. Moosehead flowed like the nearby Pembina River, cold and steady.
But Abner wouldn’t give up.
One day during school recess, unannounced, he wrestled me to the ground, and we rolled around in the dirt for a spell, before rolling downhill, crashing at the bottom into a tree. We got up and faced each other. George yells, “knock him out.”
So, I swung for the fences. Down goes Abner, teeth everywhere. I now had a 3-1 record against the town bully.
Then Abner “got” the message
As mentioned, Abner was a bully and furthermore, Stephanie was disinterested (apparently, he forced her hand at the yearling bull ride event). She had had enough too. She and I were now, as we used to call it, “going around,” as in “dating.” That in itself was a moral victory.
I believe we referred to dating as “going around,” because at age 14 and 15 we were too broke to afford dating and we did, literally go around together, like when we gave Abner the message.
George, Stephanie and I hatched a diabolical plan of epic proportions. The three of us headed into town and bought some cow markers at McQuinn’s Livestock, Feed Store and Saddlery. George grabbed a 20-litre bucket from his farm and filled it with oats.
On Friday night, under the cloak of darkness, we headed to Abner’s family farm with the oats and cow markers (and spray paint) and a six-pack of Moosehead.
We downed one and sipped a second each to put away the six-pack.
As we sat in the tall grass and nursed our second beer, Abner’s cows approached us with gentle curiosity. We let them feed, while the three of us wrote messages on them with the markers. For example, “YOU ARE DEAD, ABNER” and “NO MORE MILK, ABNER.”
Monday morning was weird
Abner was subdued and darkness followed him around that day.
During Social Studies class, Abner could not wrap his tiny brain around the concept of silent letters. He had to identify the US state of Arkansas. It frustrated him into a rage that it was not pronounced “Ar-kan-sas” but “Ark-can-saw.” I smirked as he wrestled with the concept of the second silent “s.”
The State of Arkansas farms nearly two million head of cattle at any given time, none as stupid as either of the Abners.
Anyway, the frustrated clown stood up and ceremoniously threw his desk at me.
The outhouse and the inglorious splish splash
Again, we hatched plans to teach Abner a lesson. That night, we “borrowed” a truck from George’s farm and again made the trek out to Abner’s family farm under the cover of darkness; the moon also rises. His family still used an outhouse. They were building a new fancier outhouse on the other side of the home, while a temporary outhouse sat over the old latrine pit, as it were.
We pulled up next to the fence. Manually and quietly as mice wrapped the truck’s winch cable around the temporary outhouse. We hooked the cable onto itself at the backside, and pulled it back very slowly, which seemed to take forever, the stench was horrific. We were deathly afraid of being caught during the process, and we had no plan B if we were caught. The outhouse crept backward, inch by inch, while George barely toggled the controls with surgeon-like precision. Meanwhile, Stephanie and I kept it from toppling backward, having to stop George every few minutes to keep the back edge from digging into the dirt and therefore tripping back – it creaked loudly a few times, which would send us into a frenzied panic. After what seemed half the night, the outhouse rested statuesque-like in the dark, behind the pit where the family waste polluted the night air. The scent was ghastly.
We waited.
We were yawning and ready to give up, but after what seemed to be hours, the house door finally opened. Abner hustled out, running right at us. We were caught. But not so, Abner just had to go and go very badly. And with a goopy splash, he fell into the hole.
He fought it like a trooper, flailing and yelping and gasping like a marsupial in a raging torrent. Abner the bully stood neck-high in his family’s horrific effluence.
Like ghosts, the silhouettes of Abner’s parents emerged from the house in a panic. We absolutely could not laugh or communicate, or we would be heard. Stifling ourselves (while hidden amongst the roadside poplar trees) was one of the most difficult things we ever did.
George, pointing downward to the ditch, led us crawling on all fours as we slipped into the night toward the truck, which smartly or luckily George moved 200 metres down the road and on a hill. We could coast in neutral before starting the truck up and avoid making much noise.
Driving slowly down the gravel road, Stephanie noticed distant headlights behind us — gaining. Again, we were caught.
Except, the night was clear with the bright moon shining down upon us, therefore we didn’t need headlights to see. George turned off the truck lights, cranked his father’s truck into a field of chest-high grass and turned the ignition off. We waited until Abner’s family truck went flying by, high on the tail of an invisible perpetrator of a most heinous crime. They were heading north. George turned us down a west-running road and eventually rolled us to his family’s farm.
Tuesday was post-apocalyptic-like. It all seemed dystopian. Tones were muted, voices were tempered, and the breeze was eerily light.
Of all the horrible items to emerge from Pandora’s Box, the last thing to come out was hope.
We held our breath for three days. Hoping against hope that no one would know just what we had done.
There was no Abner. He was suspended for throwing his desk at me in Social Studies class.
His parents moved him to another school.
Good riddance, Abner.
Stephanie and I sat atop a bail of hay in the late summer sunshine with an OV beer each, laughing ourselves hoarse (amongst other things). I felt like a rock star as she took a polaroid of me poised upon the bale.