I think Boo Boo had just had enough. He had dutifully bred all of the cows that Jake would let him and had stayed with the herd as long as he felt necessary. It was his time to do what all bulls do when they no longer feel needed: It was time to “bush up.”

Now normally, well-behaved herd sires politely find a nearby watering hole and suitable shade tree and alternate their transition period between the two. They can reliably be found somewhere between these respites when the time comes for them to be rounded up and relocated to their summer quarters.

Boo Boo however did not get the memo. Or maybe it was Jake’s fault. He may have told Boo Boo that going off the grid was completely acceptable with the ulterior motive that Jake himself would have the whole herd solo next season.

Regardless of who was to blame, Boo Boo took it upon himself to “bush up” well beyond the fence border. And well beyond the property line in the rough-cut wild of the neighboring hunting club land.

I guess Boo Boo knew exactly when my sister and her fiancé, Brant, planned to take their only three-day vacation of the year to visit family. Upon their return, bad Boo Boo was MIA.

After miles of walking and calling and begging and pleading, Brant put his country-boy tracking skills to the test. Judging by the abundance of tracks, Boo Boo had spent more than a few days scouting out his new bachelor pad. Brant finally located the escapee miles from his intended home.

Boo Boo, however, was not in the mood to return to his former life. He had plenty of shade and water on this side of the fence and no other bovines or humans would pester him. After a failed attempt with the ATV loaded with buckets of feed, Sis had to return home and break out the big guns. She loaded and brought forth “Whitee,” the most reliable white feed truck that God and General Motors ever made. No bovine can resist following its Siren’s Song of soy hull pellets and corn gluten.

Hours later, after multiple distractions from other bulls conveniently hooting over a mile away, Sis and Brant coaxed reluctant Boo Boo to the catch pen. Mind you, he consistently expressed his displeasure for being disrupted by targeting Brant with multiple projectile manure bombs. The hunting club browse was apparently ideal for concocting such weapons.

Once secured, the impending need to make sure Boo Boo was not a repeat offender forced Sis to deliver him to the nearest stockyard the next day. The only soul present was a maintenance man who was intrigued by a woman delivering a single bull on a non-sale day.

“What kind of cowgirl are you if you can’t keep your bull up?” he chuckled.

“Apparently not a good one,” she replied.

Good enough to know when to sell a bull. Bye bye Boo Boo, and good luck “bushing up” on someone else’s dime.