Back Cover
A Short Middle Grade Chapter Book by Wendy Laharnar
Billy the Bonsai Bull is an Australian true story told from the little bull's point of view.
Billy is a stubborn, orphaned calf who is losing the battle to survive. Hope revives in an unexpected way, through the milk bottle he detests, and brings him a sense of belonging. However, it takes more than a place in the pecking order for this little white bull to thrive. It takes a miracle.
Billy the Bonsai Bull
by Wendy Laharnar
Published by MuseItUp Publishing at Smashwords
ISBN: 978-1-927361-32-0
Copyright 2012 Wendy Laharnar
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Dedication
To Sara, Ryan & Gabriela
Prologue
Next to the home paddock in the glen, sheltered by giant gum trees, an ailing cow gave birth to a little white bull. She hid him in the spiky hawthorn bushes and behind dried bracken fern. Sometimes she nudged him into clumps of blackberries and mooed to frighten off the wedged tail eagle hovering overhead. She taught him to lie still and not utter a sound, not even to call for her until she returned from her grazing. She nibbled on the spring grass and patches of rich green clover, trying to regain her strength. Her calf thrived, but she grew weaker day by day.
The old cow loved her tiny bundle of white lightning. He darted under and out, around and between her shaky legs, nuzzling into her neck and belly. While she stood with her head supported in the fork of a tree, her calf drank contentedly from her heavy udder. He responded to her feeble licks by stretching his little neck higher, demanding more. When she dropped to her knees to rest, her calf did the same, and when she hid him in the bushes, he remained silent until he heard her call.
She showed him how to nibble grain and drink the cold, clear water from the farmer’s bucket. Her little white bull did not mind the closeness of the farmer and the farmer’s wife who knelt by her when she couldn’t stand. Their gentleness seemed to soothe him, too.
During his second week, in their shady haven, away from inquisitive cows, she told her calf about their herd of Murray Greys. The farmer did not milk the cows because they were beef cattle, raised to parade proudly in the show ring. Some were cream, but preferred to think of themselves as silver, others brown, and on occasion a black calf was born, but this was rare indeed; a miracle, according to the farmer. A black Murray Grey was a throw back to the ancient Angus herd from which they originated. Such a calf carried the special gene from the first ancestor. It had the power to protect and prosper beyond all others.
The old cow warned her calf he must grow big and strong, if he wanted to become part of the herd. His father, Galleon, a chocolate-brown giant, lived at a neighbouring stud and wouldn’t be there to protect him.
When her strength failed she spent less time grazing and more time lying beside her calf. She pointed out the wombat waddling into its burrow on the side of the hill. Wombats had harder skulls than his so he must not head-butt it. She warned him to stay well clear of snakes, especially the red-bellied black slithering under the carpet of dried leaves. And, he should respect the timid echidna living in a hollow log in the big forest at the bottom of the farm. The spiny little anteater might have a baby in her pouch, so he must not frighten her.
By the third week, the calf’s affectionate butting and nudging no longer brought her to her feet. She stretched out on the ground and rolled onto her back, making it easier for him to drink. She watched the sun dip towards the hills. Daylight dimmed. The farmer and his wife stroked her head.
“Poor Misty!” the woman said. “You have a beautiful, healthy little bull and you’ve done such a wonderful job bringing him this far. I won’t let him die. I promise. I’ll make sure he survives for your sake.”
The cow flicked her tongue, trying to add moisture to the cracked, dry, leather on her nose, and then she exhaled with a noisy groan for the last time.
Chapter One
The calf padded forward. He looked into his mother’s face and mooed softly. Her glazed, weepy eyes no longer focused on his. He nibbled on her ear. She didn’t stir.
The farmer’s wife sighed and reached forward to pat his head. “Come on, little bull. I’ll get you a nice warm drink. What do you think of that?” His hair bristled. Without his mother’s protection, he didn’t feel comfortable with these people. He darted away to the safety of a gum tree.
“This calf will be harder for you to rear than mothering a newborn,” the farmer warned his wife. “This one’s had the real thing for three weeks.”
“Maybe, but you’ll have to help me get a collar and lead on it. After that, how hard can it be? Besides, I must succeed. I promised Misty.”
The little bull waited till they walked up the hill and out of sight. He ventured out from behind the tree trunk and settled on a patch of dirt inside the hawthorn bush a short distance from where his mother lay. In his cave-like shelter he dozed, until a sudden, terrifying pressure on his ribs woke him.
The farmer’s knee pinned him to the ground. He squirmed and wriggled to his feet, kicking defiantly with his hind legs, but the farmer held him fast. The wife approached with a thin orange strap and secured the collar around his little neck. She picked up a bottle filled with a strange white liquid and pushed its rubber teat into his mouth. The teat smelled like the black boots on her feet. He eased it out with his tongue. She tried again. With her free hand she continually scratched his throat. He had to swallow. Then he gagged and struggled and spat and stamped on the woman’s foot.
She laughed and hugged him. “In spite of your tiny body and cute little face, you’re such a stubborn beast. You behave like a goat. A Billy goat! That’s what I’ll name you.” She stood and tugged on the lead. “Come on Billy, it’s me or nothing.”
Billy didn’t like the strange bottle, and he didn’t like the farmer or his wife, or the noisy big tractor the farmer climbed onto.
“Take him onto the hill while I bury Misty,” the farmer said. “Then you can bring him back to the glen. Look at the way he is pulling on that lead. He’ll be trouble.”
The woman shortened the lead and slipped her fingers under his collar. She pulled him closer to her side and took him through a metal gate at the edge of the glen. They came to the spring where he’d watched other cows come to drink. The older cows had talked to his mother through the barbed wire fence, and some had sniffed him.