There was a gentle breeze blowing and from the top of the
hill you can see miles of the lake spread out below. It’s a beautiful spot. After we stood there for a while, I saw a
small peninsula a quarter mile on past the hill and decided that we would walk
to the end of the peninsula before turning back for home. And so we headed down the hill and across
another bit of the field.
We found a lovely little glade at the end of the peninsula,
lined with trees, surrounded on three sides by water and we sat on a rock and
gazed at the quiet beauty of Loch Corrib which never fails to move me. Then we turned and headed for home.
As we came off the peninsula, I saw in the distance, a
bullock coming over the next hill. It
seems there wasn’t a fence through that hedgerow as I had thought and as we got
to the other end of it, the other field simply opened into the one we were
in. I tried to get Nick to hurry across
the fifty yards or so of broken field before we could head back along the lake
shore. But that bullock was heading
straight towards us. As we started to
run, another and then another of those cattle came down the hill. They were clearly curious about Nick, as
Newfoundlands or other big dogs are seldom seen in this part of Ireland and
certainly not by this particular herd of cattle. As more and more cows came over the hill, we
started to run for it. They began to run
for us.
Maybe Nick could have gotten away if he had run, but I had
snapped the leash on him to keep him away from the cattle. I kept him close to keep him from being
trampled. But now, here we were pinned
against the shoreline with nowhere to run and a herd of, now twenty bullocks
heading towards us. As they closed in,
there was nowhere to go but to jump onto some rocks just off shore. And so we found ourselves, me sitting on a
large rock, three feet from the shore, with Nick at my feet. The entire herd came to the edge of the
water, extending their big noses to sniff the dog. He went nose to nose with several off them. We were surrounded. Twenty bullocks trying to get their noses
close to the dog, grunting and snuffling, just a couple of feet away. The tumble of rocks at the edge of the water
upon which they wouldn’t step was the only barrier between us.
I couldn’t think of a thing to do in the situation. We were marooned on a two-foot long rock,
three feet from shore with twenty noses stretching towards us. There was no place to run to where they
couldn’t easily run us down.
It was one of those rare moments in my life when I had no
idea of any kind what to do. I was at a
total loss. So we sat there. I figured, in time, the herd would drift
away. Twenty minutes past and, sure
enough, half of the herd wandered off a few dozen feet and started chewing more
grass. But there was this absolutely
stubborn core of ten or so that would not budge or lose interest, and so there
we sat.
Finally, in frustration, remembering my boyhood among the
cows of New Jersey (that’s not a joke) I decided to scare them away. I banged my walking stick of the rocks,
shouting and making menacing, grunting sounds.
Many of the cows began to back away.
Heartened, I stepped off of my sanctuary rock, moved to the shore and
banged and grunted some more. While
Irish bullocks are certainly not as easily intimidated as New Jersey dairy
cows, I seemed to be making some rough progress when, pushing its way through
from the back of our little herd came the actual bull. He was huge.
His chest was far wider than the boulder that I had been standing on. He had a brass ring through his nose. The look in his eye was one of the scariest
things I have ever seen. I jumped back
to the safety of my rock and pulled the dog close to me. The bull came right to the waters edge and
sniffed the dog—nose to nose. I was
terrified that the bull would keep coming and splash through our little three-foot
moat of protection, but he, like the bullocks, stopped at the water’s edge.
I have since learned that bulls allowed to run with herds of
cattle are responsible for many deaths each year in Ireland. The practice of letting them in with the herd
is frowned upon but commonplace. My
menacing behavior now, it seemed clear, had aroused his protective
instincts. He certainly seemed to regard
us as a threat.
And so we sat again, marooned three feet from shore, with
what seemed like a thousand pounds of pure killer sticking his snuffling nose
to within a few inches of us. That nose
was almost as wide as Nick’s head (and Nick is no small dog). Once again, no
good option seemed to present itself.
This bull didn’t seem even slightly inclined to lose interest in us. I could almost have cried.
The turning point in this tale was a little accident. In trying to get comfortable on my rocky
perch, I slipped. My foot, shoe and all, went plunging into the water. Now, with
a shoe already ruined, I plunged the other one into the lake as well. I realized that we could possibly wade our
way to safety. Of course the field
stretched a good half-mile along the lake.
That’s a long wade over rough rocks in thigh deep water, but there
seemed no alternative. I pulled the dog
in with me and dragged him through the rocky water along the shore. The bull and his entire entourage followed
every step of the way. Nickleby was
having a lot of trouble. The water was
too deep for him to walk. He still
refuses (even though Newfoundland’s are supposed to be skilled water dogs) to
swim. So I just dragged him on his leash
through the water. He swam a little and clamored over a lot of rocks. Eventually,
the collar around his neck stretched enough in the water that he pulled his
head right out of it.
He ran onto the shore just feet in front of the following
bull. I yelled desperately for him to
come back, but I was standing in four feet of water and he seemed more ready to
face the bull. He’s never been good
about coming when called and I called with every tone of voice I could think
off, to no avail. That is, until the
bull charged at him and he leapt into the water and tried to climb into my
arms. I put the collar back on and we
continued our arduous rocky trek.
Luckily, the ground along the lake got rockier still as we travelled
down the shoreline. The herd began to
have trouble walking on the big stones.
Eventually, even the bull stopped following. We gradually worked our way into the shallows
and onto the shore, moving as fast as we could.
That rocky ground only extended for about a hundred feet and
the cattle only had to go around it and we would have been just as stranded on
the other side, running to the gate that was two dozen yards from the safety of
the lake. But, thank God, people are
right about cows—they’re just not that smart.
As we reached the far side of the rocky stretch, they just stood and
watched us as we fled towards the gate.
Had that bull figured out that he only had to walk a few extra yards to
get around the rocky area, we would have been in real trouble. But there he stood, pawing the ground (I’ve
since read that that is not a good sign) in frustration at our escape. Celebrating the narrow (and rare) victory of
brains over brawn, we ran to the gate.
Nick was cut on the rocks.
I lost a good pair of shoes and much of my self-respect. But we sat down in the next field in
exhaustion and relief. There were hugs
all around. I gave Nick the rest of a
pocketful of treats. We vowed never to
go into strange fields again without a little more investigation. Our education in the ways of the Irish (and their animals) continues.
