My Close Call… by Jane Strebel

I remember him still: massive, intimidating, and totally fulfilling the expectations of his name. Samson was a Hereford bull. He sported the dark red coat and white face typical of the breed, as well as the beautiful, chiseled head so characteristic of the male of the species. What set Samson apart from his predecessors, however, was the ring in his nose. The Hereford breed is known for its even, easygoing temperament, but apparently no one had ever thought to notify Samson of this fact. In other words, you wouldn’t want to be around him when he was in a foul mood. 

Daddy had warned us kids about Samson, telling us to stay clear, that he had that nose ring for a reason. Unfortunately, I may have had more grit than brains during those days, even though I did have a healthy respect for what that nose ring represented. So, there I was, a skinny, barefooted girl of ten or so, walking past Samson as he contentedly grazed in the uppermost section of the field known as the bull lot.

Why I decided to walk up to the farm gate that led to the adjacent field, I will never know, but that’s just what I did. I opened the gate, walked through, then closed it and proceeded to walk down the hill parallel to the electric fence separating me from Samson. I continued to walk another quarter mile or so until I reached the creek. I could have kept walking in another direction, or I could have stopped and played in the creek. There were actually many things I could have done, but I suddenly had a real hankering for mint. 

I was so close to where the wild mint grew that it would have been unthinkable for a girl like me not to have gotten it. So, I checked on Samson, who was still grazing a good distance away at the top of the hill, and made the decision to carefully crawl under the electric fence. I cautiously made my way to the natural spring that was on the far end of the bull lot. All around that spring there was an abundance of sweet, fresh mint. I looked for stable footing, but since the area around the spring was soggy, I immediately stepped in mucky slime up to my ankles. As I bent over to pick some delectable mint, I suddenly heard the thundering sound of the feet of a bull on a rampage. I looked up and saw Samson heading straight toward me. Never had I moved so fast, never had feet that had been stuck in the miry clay worked so hard to lead me to safety. Twenty feet to go and Samson was still barreling toward me, ten feet to go and I could hear his snorting. I got to the fence and swiftly wedged my skinny body under the bottommost wire, fearing the worst. At that moment Samson suddenly stopped, satisfied that he’d rid his field of its trespasser. I, on the other hand, sheepishly trekked back home and never told anyone about my close call with a raging bull.