Rawhide - Stuff

Rawhide By Murray Simpson I finished work around 6.40am on Wednesday night feeling pretty down about life. I had a mortgage, no partner, no cat but an awesome daughter, when Phil said to me, “would you like something different tomorrow?” What now, I thought to myself. “Yeah. Ok.” “Can you drive #31 and pick up some cattle?” I arrived at Urenui and backed into a makeshift loading ramp to pick up one prime steer. Turned the engine off, so as not to upset the beast. There was an electric prodder in the truck, which I dislike using but agree at times it is a necessity. Instead, I had with me my trustworthy ‘waddy’. A waddy is an Aboriginal word for short stick. Abstract in form and life, yet it is part of a stockman’s arm or leg. I’ve heard stories about what they will or won’t swap for a waddy. Much the same for the ‘akubra’. There’s more scraps in a public bar over a waddy or an akubra than a good woman. You never use a waddy on the cattle – it’s used like whitebaiting – an extension of your arm to draft and guide them. Lancewood trees make food ones and I’m told on the East Coast they used Tane-Kaha (Strongman). When the trees were young and supple they would twist them together to form the knuckle or handle. Anyway, there were three steers in the holding paddock and I only wanted one. The hand-reared one I suppose! Two R.W.F (red with white face) and one B.W.F. who looked prime, so he drew the short straw. The pen leading up to the ramp consisted of three 12’ gates held together with baling twine and No.8 wire. Whoever invented these two icons either wants a gold medal or shooting. I had five or six attempts at getting this guy into the truck – mates and all. I tried every combination you could with a threesome and only achieved a severe bout of perspiration. I’d come a long way for this dude and if he jumped over the gate I’d be stuffed. It would be like Colin Meads trying to catch Carl Lewis – but watch out when he did. Well, I got all three on, drafted off his two mates, yellow between the shoulders, record the ‘hubometer’, nervous pee and off I go. Off to Alfred Road to pick up five hand-reared Angus heifers. It took slightly longer than I thought because I overshot the runway by five km’s. Lucky I wasn’t a B52 with little baby on board, especially the Enola Gay! Bit of back-pedalling and found my quarry. I backed into an excellent set of yards and was greeted by a very pleasant and helpful lady owner. She was rather sad that her Angus friends were leaving the farmlet. I started whistling “Soon we’ll be sailing” to make her feel better. Turned the engine off again, grabbed my ‘waddy’, which incidentally in today’s culture turned out to be three feet of ¾ “ alkathene”. What an insult to Jolliffe and his friends. Well bugger me. I’ve had a few years of experience loading Angus heifers and believe me; they have not changed much.

Anyway I digress from my present dilemma to load these five. Aberdeen Angus – hardy breed of Scottish cattle, unaccustomed to being penned up. Heifer – female cattle species, unaccustomed to be penned up. Myself, being a single male truck driver, can relate to the last definition! This particular set of yards had four corners, one of which led up into the loading ramp. Piece of piss here – I thought. I walked quietly into the pen and said, “shooshoo!” hoping they would run up into the truck. Don’t be so stupid, Murray, because they are Angus heifers. I said to the lady owner “these must be hand-reared?” “I’m not too sure”, she said, “but they are really quiet in the paddock”. After several rounds in the holding pen, I thought to myself that I would get them with science. I couldn’t swear because the lady owner was also ‘shoo-shooing’. I thought of Murphy’s Law but digested the fact that we had already done that. I started whistling “Rawhide” but sounded like a bantam layer a double-yoker, so that didn’t work. Back to my scientific theory. Albert Einstein once stated in Quantum Mechanics or Relativity that any given object under motion will eventually collide with something, or someone. Even Avagadro’s number of 6.023 x 1023 molecules sprung into my head. For f’s sake, I’m only trying to get five Angus into one corner! And by now the mud was five inches deep and each heifer had shit five times. Remember at the old time dances, in the Gay Gordon we used to spin the bottle and that corner was out? So I started whistling “she’ll be coming round the mountain”. No good! The lady owner suggested to let the hand-reared steer out of the truck and then they would follow him back in. I politely explained that it would be like sending yourself a Valentine card. No good getting stressed, so I whistle the second verse of ‘Rawhide’. Straight up and into the truck they ran, me behind, slammed the door. Piece of piss! I was perspiring now in places I never knew I had! Have you ever noticed how a cow will take her calf to the furthest corner of a paddock – mother nature I guess – so I suppose these animals were only doing what’s instinct. I used to call Angus cattle the Bob Scott’s and George Nepia’s because they could kick with both feet as well. Maybe I digress but if you drive a truck and you are on your own most of the day you remember these stories and anecdotes. By now I’m on my way to Kohete Rd to pick up some lambs. Good set of yards here, right on the roadside. Sheep farmers yards. Back in, I’ll leave the motor running cause this will be a ‘piece of pee’. First problem was to put the five Angus heifers into the front pen with the steer. Two circuits inside the truck and one ‘eva three step polandais’ by yours truly and I had them penned up front. I had to fold the back two side pens down to accommodate these lambs because I still had one fat heifer to pick up. I will chase the lambs down the race, into the truck and then physically lift them into the top side-deck. I was actually looking forward to this.

Sheep don’t like being penned up either I found out. I notice the Oxford Concise calls them a ‘timid gregarious woolly animal’. There must be a lot of lost sheep walking down K Road on Friday night then. Anyway, I chased them down the race – no problem – only one problem – I couldn’t reach the front ones to push them onto the truck so I clambered over them and pushed half on and went back out to the pen to get the other half. You dumb-arse, Murray! Cause you know what happened. Yes. For f’s sake – I’m not going through any of Sir Isaac Newton’s or Stephen Hawkings theories for 37 lambs, but they all ran back out into the yards. Aha! I’ll fold the pens down after I’ve got them into the truck. I looked around to see if anyone saw my dumb mistake. Only two magpies. Once inside the truck I had 37 lambs to go into two pens. 37 divided by two equals 18 ½ . I was not going to let this small problem beat me. I remember my physics teacher saying most things had a simple solution. What’s physics got to do with loading lambs? Piece of piss, I’ll do it this way. 37 lambs multiplied by four (because they four legs) equals 148 legs. Divide by half, because I had two pens, equals 74 legs. Pretty simple. 74 legs up top and 74 legs in the bottom pen. Things were good until I counted 72 legs? Yeah, well, you work it out. Right-o-lets get into this. Nineteen on the bottom, eighteen up top. Well I got to sixteen up top and I couldn’t reach the last two and hold the top gate shut as well. Well buggar me, I thought, even these lambs are buggering me around. I turned a few lambs around so their bums faced me while I let got of the gate to grab the other two. Sweet as! Only one to go and by now I was down to singlet and shorts. Not a pretty sight I might add, but probably a good ‘before’ picture for Jenny Craig. This last lamb was starting to test my patience. I think I was hand-reared cause I’ve got plenty of patience. I only managed to reach his back leg when one of the top deck lambs decided he wanted to jump out. Being vertically challenged, I could not do both things at once. Well, bugger me, I thought – I’ll let this one go, turn around and head butt this guy on the top deck, quickly retrieve his mate and shove him up Sooty’s arse on the top deck. Well, this ruminant turned around again and wanted to jump out and catch the Sante Fe to Memphis!

So there we were, 2.00pm Thursday, four inches apart, eyeballing each other. Me trying to get his mate up with him and he trying to get out. Eyeballing a lamb at that close range confirmed my suspicions that there is buggar all behind those eyes. No logic or understanding or compassion. Goats are the same. Two minutes later we were still eyeballing each other. Shit!”I said to Sooty that if you try to jump out over me, I will bite your f’n nose! To which he replied, if you bite my nose I will head-butt your bald head!” Another 20 seconds eye-balling and he won because I had to look away. Those two magpies were probably still looking.

It reminds me of the apparently true story about the wild sheep in the Scottish Highlands. Occasionally they would meet high in the hills, on a one way path. They would stand there for ages, until one would kneel down and let the other one walk over top of him to continue their journey. In the Bible the story relates to the patience and strength of your soul because they ask the question – which sheep kneels down first to let the other walk over him? The answer of course, the Bible will tell you, is the stronger one! Gates shut and pins locked in, a friendly tap on the shoulder from a personal friend called perspiration, reminding met to get to my next pick up. I recorded the hubodometer, had another nervous pee and at the same time looked through the gap in the crate. No bullshit, I tell you. Sooty’s cousin was looking straight at me! You could tell they were from the same family tree. I drove down to the end of the road where two lovely Kowhai trees were in full bloom. Several finch birds were feeding on the nectar and there were some wild fuchsia’s nearby, even a few foxgloves, so I knew I was inland a bit. Away I go to Stratford, Douglas, towards Huiroa. Turn left at Huiroa Country Club and look for a rapid number loading race. I met the rural post lady on a tight corner and ask her for directions. She said that I was nearly there. I found the rapid number and backed into an old cowshed converted to a set of cattle yards drenching race. I had one fat heifer to pick up and that was my truckload. I really didn’t have room for anything more. As Tom Paxton sang at Woodstock, “there was S.R.O” standing room only. I backed into the loading race for the last time today and walked down along side the truck for some unapparent reason, I looked into the crate and believe it or not, I was being eye-balled by my woolly friend again! I stood there for a few minutes and told “lamb-chops” about a poem I read on the back of the women’s toilet door in the Whangamomona Hotel. ‘Mary had a little lamb, It’s fleece was black as charcoal, Every time the lamb did baa, Flames shot out it’s arsehole’ Don’t ask how I got to read it in the women’s at Whanga, but I didn’t think I had toothache. I think I read in a psychology book once how your mind gets distracted about every six minutes. Probably read it in the same place I read the ditty. Once again I was greeted by two pleasant elderly farmers. “How’s your day been? He said. “Sweet as “I replied, wondering who came up with that saying. They had put two old Jersey cows with this MT heifer to keep her company – which was good farming. “Bloody great”, I thought, “this heifer must be bust-fed.” Opened the back door and suddenly the two cows were up my arse trying to get into the truck. “I only want the heifer”, I said and the lady farmer said she would try and draft them off. I’ll get my waddy and cut them out. I was quite surprised how nimble I was and

the lady said that I did a good job. Her husband said that he could draft and read cattle by their eyeballs. I told him I had already read Doubledays Roget Thesaurus on my last pick-up. “Thanks very much”, I said and asked them if the heifer was bust-fed . “Oh no”, they exclaimed, ‘we hand reared her”. It was one of those days. I waved out again to the post lady and by now I was relaxed enough to turn the radio on, A song came on called “The Rock Island Line”. I should’ve bought a Lotto ticket that day because this song summed up my whole day. It’s about the trains and cattle trains in the mid U.S.A running down to New Orleans. There used to be tollgates there and if you had livestock on you didn’t have to pay any toll. Of course they would conceal pig iron under the carriages or wagons or under the livestock. Just before the tollgates, the engine driver would sing, “I got cows, I got sheep, I got mules, I got all livestock”. Once past the tollgates he would sing ‘I fooled you, I fooled you, I got pig-iron, I got pig-iron! I even sang along and sounded just like Lonnie Donegan. A real pleasant drive from Huiroa to Douglas – a change for me anyway. I reckon I could have picked up a few goats or mules on the way back and changed the name from Sandford Livestock Ltd to Ringling Bros – Barnum & Bailey.