I guess I’m still processing the fact that the Charolais bull that hunted me and was running when he hit me didn’t kill me or after I saw him attack my cowboy that he isn’t dead either.
When I reached out and put my hands on that huge head just before he hit me full on in the chest I was thinking a statistic I heard, only one in 6 people survive a bull attack. I closed my eyes and thought, this is it. But somehow it wasn’t.
I got up and as I ran to the fence I saw that he had turned around and was running towards the man I love most in the whole world. I saw him go flying along with his sunglasses, hat, and one boot. Then that same big head pushed into his body and rubbed him around as he lay on his back on the ground.
I yelled and waved and that big head came up but this time I was close enough to the fence when he came at me again. I clambered up but not so high that he couldn’t have hit my leg and maybe knocked me off my precarious perch. He seemed a little confused when he got to me and didn’t. My cowboy rolled under the fence out of harms way.
I’m getting to the age when death actually holds some appeal. I’ve raised my kids to be self-sufficient, got to do what I wanted to my whole life (be a real cowgirl), had good horses and good dogs that I think might even be waiting for me on the other side along with parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles I loved, and maybe even some relatives I never met but would really like. I’ve got lots of room for improvement but I’m not afraid to meet my Maker (in fact, I’m looking forward to that).
So . . . why? Obviously there’s a reason; I just don’t know what it is.