Katy

My dad was the only one to call me Katy, and he did so only occasionally. He always pronounced it in a soft tone, so I paid attention.

One particular morning, he came in and woke me up, much much earlier than normal.  He said, "Katy, I need your help, the bull is loose in the yard."  Now, I knew right away this was a crisis because he never would have asked a daughter for help with such a dangerous thing if he hadn't truly needed it.  I was up and ready in less than 30 seconds.  I followed him outside and it was almost pitch dark, probably around 4:30 a.m. with just enough pre-dawn light to see the big white bull moving around in the yard.

He didn't have a Ferdinand-like disposition and as far as I know, we had never had a bull on the loose in the yard and no instruction booklet on the subject either. I didn't know how we could ever get him corralled again, but Dad had a rope, and Dad could do anything. We gently tried to coax him into the corral, my dad no doubt using the cow herd as temporary bait.  Mother was probably somewhere close but I don't recall seeing her.

I had never seen my dad scared before in my entire life, but this day he was shaking.  What courage it took for him to get near the bull and slip the rope through its nose ring, I cannot imagine, but it was impressive.  We just kept encouraging Mr. Bull to return to his pen and eventually he did.

It was a pretty somber morning and I've never forgotten it.  Things could have turned out a whole lot worse.