Bovine bromance almost enough to make me a vegetarian

Phillip Adams’ bromance with a bull similar to the one pictured became a growing concern to his family and farm manager.

Over our 40 years at the farm we’ve had a plethora of pets. Horses (big and little), a herd of donkeys and sheep, an alpaca we called Kerry, a joey that peed all over Paul Keating’s Zegna suit, an aggressive turkey, pulchritudinous peacocks (both polychromatic and a pure white, all killed by foxes), a dozen dogs that were mostly destined to die of snakebite and, unbeknownst to us, an indoor snake that lived beneath a telly set for years, as evidenced by the shed shimmery skins it left behind. Just where baby Rory learned to crawl.

But the pet that loomed largest in the landscape was a bull. No ordinary bull but a whopper – the big black Brahmin we called Malcolm. Not after Fraser or Turnbull but X, in honour of one of America’s martyrs.

Over the years we’ve experimented with cattle breeds. English Herefords, some “Low Lines” (aka miniature cattle) and, given the area was founded by Scottish Presbyterians and with the nearest town being Aberdeen, Angus. But as the droughts deepened we decided to try Brahmins, believed to be the best adapted to dry conditions. So one morning we were gazing into a yard of pushing, shoving Brahmin bulls. Some enchanted morning you may see a stranger across a crowded pen and it’s love at first sight. To borrow more from that Rodgers and Hammerstein song, Who can explain it, who can tell you why? Fools give you reasons, wise men never try.

I was instantly smitten. And it seemed, the feeling was mutual. We bonded forever. We were Romeo and Romeo – or Romoo-eo? God knows Malcolm had his choice of bovine beauties, Juliets jostling for his attentions. I’d look for him after his day doing what bulls are born to do. If he was laying exhausted I’d sit on him. If he was standing ruminating I’d come up and reward him with a piece of fruit. His response? He’d lift me aloft on his huge head.

When not in view I’d call him and he’d come trotting across a 1000-acre paddock. But I had to be careful. If there were a fence between us he’d simply crash through it. Dragging the barbed-wires behind him like a necklace.

It became a party trick with visitors. I’d tell them about Malcolm and, in response to their disbelief, give them a demo. I’d call “Malcolm!!” and then, after a few minutes, he’d arrive. And lift me up on his head.

This cordiality was not extended to others. Our bromance involved a one-man bull and a one-bull man. And it became of growing concern to the family and our farm manager. There was a mounting fear that, inevitably, our friendship would end in grief. That quite by accident this gigantic creature would crush me.

So, one day after my usual week in Sydney, I returned to find no sign of Malcolm. There was no response to my calls. Enquiries led to blank expressions, feigned ignorance.

Finally it became clear that Malcolm was no longer with us. Had he had a heart attack, or fallen off a cliff? Relentless interrogation led to the confession that he’d been sent to the sale yards and probably ended up in a few thousand Big Macs. It was almost enough to make me a vegetarian.

But Malcolm’s ghost may be heard, still. Sometimes I feel that if I called he would come thundering. Dragging a few fences behind him.