Ferdinand...the Gentle Giant

I had long been dreading this day...

In the morning as I stood at the sink, I would look down at the stable and see Ferdinand stretched out in the sawdust under the run in, his massive head resting on the ground. I would stand and watch him thinking, “This is what he will look like when he is dead. Is he dead?” Then he would stir, lifting his head up, and I could breathe again.
When I went down to do my morning routine at the stable, Ferdie would wait while I fed Bud the Barn Cat first. If I took too long, he would go into his stall and wait for his breakfast. The problem was he was too big for me to get in the stall to feed him. His rump filled the door. So we would do a little dance. I’d rattle the feed bucket, he would ponderously turn and come outside to me, I would slip into the stall and pour out his feed in the corner, wait for him to come in, scratch his ears, pat his back and slip out. I loved that old curly haired red bull.
Twenty one years ago, mama and daddy drove down to Mr. Ragan’s farm in North Florida to buy a bull. Mr. Ragan specialized in English Shorthorns, a multi-purpose breed, that daddy liked. They chose a solid red boy with a long straight back and a curly mophead. For fifty dollars, Mr. Regan and his son Ben delivered him, and Ferdinand the Gentle Bull became a part of our family. Daddy hand fed and petted Ferdinand until he became a gentle giant. Our family picture book has pictures of children sitting on Ferd’s broad back, legs sticking straight out to the side, grinning in nervous disbelief. One of my favorite pictures of daddy has him sitting on his heels, squatting down in front of Ferd, holding the feed bucket while Ferdie eats his fill.
We had moved to Sabbath Rest Farm when daddy found out he had myelofibrosis. It would eventually kill him so he began to make preparations. He sent Ferd and a small band of cows to us as our starter herd. For eight years, Ferdie worked hard and we had a regular crop of calves every year. When he ran out of steam, we brought him up to the horse pasture for retirement. I fed him sweet feed twice a day and he had all the hay he could eat. He was my 2000 pound dog. Tim and Jeannie could see him from their home resting in the pasture nestled up next to the fence under the pine trees. When the weather was bad, he had a stall in the horse barn for shelter.
Yesterday morning, I went out to feed and muck. Ferd had not eaten his supper so I went looking for him. The pasture was empty and a section of the fence was flat on the ground, posts broken. I called Michael to alert him and we began walking the woods looking for Ferd. After an hour or so of searching, we found him stuck in a narrow ravine, unable to move and near death. Sometimes animals sense the approach of death and go off to die alone. Ferdie had never tried to go through the fence before so I am choosing to believe he was answering an invisible call, a signal that his end was near.
As I sat watching old Ferd, tears streaming down my face, I knew he needed help. Our rifle is a twenty two and I feared it would not do the job so a neighbor came bringing a larger caliber gun. I couldn’t bear to be there so Michael and Kenny did what needed to be done. I went to mama’s house, sat with her and told stories about daddy and Ferd. Leisa and Julie came to keep us company in our grief and as women have done for centuries, wept with us.
We will bury our old bull near the leaning barn, in the midst of the comings and goings of cows and humans. His gentle spirit will live on in our hearts. We returned to Mr. Ragan’s farm last November to pick up our next shorthorn bull, Little Ferdinand. I am working with him, gentling and preparing him to live up to his namesake. The evening after Ferd’s death, Fanny went into labor. To everything, there is a season...a time to die and a time to be born. Always, always there is new life, resurrection in the midst of death. Thanks be to God.