My grandparents bought a 20 acre piece of land near the Kings Canyon National forest, just outside of Fresno, California, when I was 7 years old. The "locals" referred to all of us as "City Slickers" because they had moved from Southern California. During the first summer there, my grandparents decided that they would get into the "cattle business"...and why not, there was 20 acres of grazing land that needed clearing?

Acquiring cows wasn't a big deal. They purchased 10 nice cows that would surely produce nice offspring for the "cattle sale" every spring. Eventually, though, everyone realized that without a bull there would be no calves, so my grandfather called on a ad for "Bulls For Sale" and planned a day trip down to Fresno.

We arrived at a dusty little ranch early the next morning, greeted by the smallest Mexican man that I had ever seen. His legs were bowed, and soaking wet, he probably weighed a hundred pounds at best. We followed him to the back area where all the bulls were housed and were met with a cloud of dust. There were several bulls in the same pen, pushing each other around, and several more in separate pens. As we walked passed, they charged the fence, snorting...I nearly wet my pants.

"This way, nice bull back here," the little Mexican man proclaimed as we made our way through the dust.

We came upon "Red" standing under a tree in a pen. He looked our way and then simply when back to eating lazily at the grass on the ground. He was the biggest bull that I think I'd ever seen, a "White Faced Herford", we later found out.

"This one, good bull...not mean," the little man said as we approached the fence. Still the sounds of the other bulls behind us made that a little hard to believe.

"Well, he sure looks like a nice bull. How old is he?" My grandfather asked, trying to pretend he knew something about cattle.

"2 years, good breeding age," the man responded.

My grandfather made a deal with the man and he agreed to haul the bull up the hill for us. After money was exchanged and a cattle trailer was backed up to the pen, the little Mexican man entered the pen without fear. I had to hold my breath. He had a stick in his hand and tapped the bull on his hindquarters, and he easily moved toward the trailer and lumbered inside.

Red fit in well at the ranch. He really was a good bull, easy going, calm, covered the cows well and many babies were born. Still, about six years later, we noticed that Red was

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