Relating to a ‘ROUS’

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 21/12/2024 (365 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

In 2022 Terry Doerksen and his wife Patty took an ox and Red River cart from downtown Winnipeg to downtown St. Paul, Minn., along the Red River Trail. Last year, they dusted off their oxcart for a rumble down the Old Dawson Road. Readers of the Free Press followed along on these journeys. But it seems there are still a few stories begging to be told.

One of the most interesting elements of our oxcart journeys was developing a relationship with a “ROUS” — in this case, a “ruminant of unusual size.”

It’s a good thing Zik didn’t realize the power he had, outweighing his human 10-to-one. Had there been a mutiny, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.

However, there was the time we took a rest day and Patty and I decided to go for a walk. When Zik perceived we were “abandoning” him, he started lowing pitifully after us — the big baby! Mom and Dad can’t even go on a romantic walk without the kid having to tag along. So I told Zik he could come if he stayed on his leash.

Clearly he had some oats he needed to burn off, so I gave in again and started jogging beside him. Before I knew it, Zik was in a full-out gallop. I tried to slow him down but there was simply no way. I knew I’d have to do something desperate or I’d lose my ox, so I face-planted and became a human anchor. This actually worked and Zik came to a bewildered stop, but not before my pants had dragged down around my ankles, the full moon shining brightly up out of the grass and my loving wife doubled over in laughter.

An animal to swear by

The Red River cart is justifiably famous for the horrific squealing sound produced by an ungreased axle inside a wooden hub. Only slightly less offensive to tender ears was the cart driver “encouraging” his animal.

The first question Dennis Scott, my ox guru, asked me when I met him face-to-face was, “Do you know how to swear? Because you’re sure going to learn by the time you get to St. Paul.” Admittedly, my skill in this field of oration isn’t much better than that of Winnipeg Jets star centre Mark Scheifele. Like Mark, I try to detonate my “F-bombs” somewhere between fiddlesticks and fudge. But was there no other way to motivate a beast of burden?

I wasn’t really encouraged by the story of an Anglican bishop who was being taken to his Prairie post by a big Irishman named Macmillan. The bishop became much aggrieved at the profanity Macmillan used to get his team of horses through stretches of mud. “I do assure you,” said Macmillan, “that they won’t pull a pound without it.” But the wagoneer, out of deference to the bishop, promised to bite his tongue.

Eventually they became stuck fast in a slough with a thunderstorm approaching. As predicted, the horses remained mired and wouldn’t budge under the newly applied technique of the “power of praise.” The saintly passenger eyed the sky and became more and more anxious. Finally the poor bishop broke down. “Well, well, Mr. Macmillan, we must get on. Do as you think best, but I take no responsibility in the matter.” The narrator of the story describes what followed:

Macmillan seized the reins from the ground, and walking up and down the length of his six-horse team, began to address them singly and in the mass in terms so sulphurously descriptive of their ancestry, their habits, and their physical and psychological characteristics, that when he gave the word in a mighty culminating roar of blasphemous excitation, each of the bemired beasts seemed to be inspired with a special demon, and so exerted itself to the utmost limit of its powers that in a single minute the load stood high and dry on solid ground.

So how would I handle an unmotivated ROUS? I decided I didn’t want to learn a new language. I would rather travel a couple kilometres less with a happy ox. And I soon realized we could make a lot better time with me leading Zik, rather than riding on the cart behind. I still started every day driving from the cart, but during my much longer turns as pacesetter, I logged a lot of steps between Winnipeg and St. Paul.

Ox-ceptionally observant?

On the trail, Zik only felt secure if he knew where I was. As I puttered around a campsite in the evening, Zik followed my movements with his pivoting ears. When he’d get stressed out on a busy road, nothing comforted him like an “ox hug” in which I’d carefully negotiate my body between his horns, and then lean into his forehead with my chest. I had become Zik’s herd.

However, no human mattered when Zik would sense other cattle in the vicinity. He’d begin to loudly announce his presence to any compadre within earshot and then strain as close as I’d allow toward his new acquaintances. I’d usually try to be understanding and give in to a short fellowship break before urging Zik back onto the task.

Knowing Zik’s huge appetite for bovine interaction, it surprised me the one time I noticed a cow up ahead before Zik did. We kept getting closer and Zik remained oblivious. Finally it was my turn to speak my mind.

“You’re not too bright, are you Zik? I’m guessing you’d score in the lowest percentile of any Ox IQ test. I’m not sure how thrilled I am being seen walking with such a dumb animal.”

About the time I was finished chirping Zik, I looked up and realized what I’d seen wasn’t actually a cow. It was a horse. I was humble enough to admit my mistake and apologized to Zik for my misplaced insults. And then I looked again and realized it wasn’t a horse after all. It was definitely a donkey. Well, at least I wasn’t the only jackass. And there you go Dennis — I finally learned to swear.

Cow tipping: Fact or fiction?

Anyone who knows enough about animals to differentiate between a cow and a horse, or who has seen the movie Cars, knows you can tip a cow. You simply sneak up on a standing, sleeping cow and give it a little push. Over she goes. A classic rural prank.

However, anyone who knows a little more about cattle (or has looked for an example of cow tipping on YouTube) knows it’s a complete myth. After all, cows sleep lying down, not standing up. Either way, cattle have enough residual “prey” programming in their DNA that you couldn’t sneak up on them anyway. Whenever I happened to approach Zik at night, his eyes were always wide open and focused on me.

But there are still a few crusty cattlemen around who know cow tipping is absolutely a thing. With a rope passed around the animal in a certain way, with knots in the right places, a scrawny teenager can give a little pull and safely flip a beefy bull. Or so the rumour goes.

Dennis thought I should learn the trick if I ever needed to work on Zik’s hooves out in the wild. With horses, you can lift up one hoof at a time to work on it, but apparently cattle can’t keep their balance when you try that. I wasn’t too enthusiastic, and I doubted I could or would ever have to pull it off, but I carefully drew a diagram as Dennis described the process.

Then the dreaded time came when I did need to give Zik some new shoes and there was no cattle squeeze available.

I found my crumpled sketch and with the help of some new friends, strung the rope and tied the knots. I pulled and tugged — all 200 pounds of me — with no obvious result, but then Zik slowly started to totter and finally went over like a sack of potatoes.

Neither Zik nor I was having much fun, and it quickly became obvious that even if I could get him down, he was moving way too much for us to work on him.

In the end we still had to trailer Zik over to a squeeze we found, losing a number of days in the process. Zik was none the worse for wear after the whole ordeal, but I ended up with a Technicolor horn-shaped welt on my arm and the dubious distinction of having “cow tipping” added to my resumé.

FAQ: How’s Zik?

Zik is alive, well and happy, and residing on Dennis Scott’s farm near Stonewall. From time to time I’ll pop over to say “hi,” tell him what a smart ox he is and give him a hug if he’s had a stressful day.

sonsofdoerk@gmail.com