Bull Stones

I have spent the past week with my Dad.

At 89 years of age, this former rancher and veterinarian has decided to move to the nearby Senior’s Lodge.

He and I and his good friend, Shirley, have spent the time packing.

Boxing away the memories of a lifetime.

The bronze horse that was a gift from his wife on their wedding day. The painting purchased for that same wife a few years later.

Instruments of torture Veterinarian tools and equipment. His leather surgical kit. A box of assorted needles from the days before disposable syringes. His ‘vet’ bag.

Games and dishes and jewelry and bedding and pots and pans and knick-knacks and pictures and clothing and coins and stamps and furniture.

A lifetime.

Some of them were of interest only to Dad . . . 

Shirley and I were collecting the assorted treasures off the top of Dad’s dresser.

There was a valet tray with an assortment of cuff links, tie clasps, buttons and Hereford-themed pins.

Grooming supplies.

And a tiny container, glass-topped, full of little . . . beads.

Shirley shook it. “What is this?”

She handed it to me. I peered at it closely. Multi-coloured little rocks. “Looks like little bits of gravel. From a holiday somewhere?” I handed it to Dad.

He looked at it and smiled. “Oh. These are stones I removed from bulls’ penises during surgery.”

“Oh.” Shirley and I said together.

I’m quite sure my expression mirrored her own.

How do you say ‘ewwww’?

Oh, right. EWWWWWW!

Dad sat back, looking at the little container, still with that smile. Obviously remembering, fondly, his days as a veterinarian.

Yeah. Some memories are a little too . . . memorable . . . for the rest of us.

Care to go through some boxes with me?

Some of the numerous awards his cattle have won over the years.

The keyboard that figured so prominently a day or two ago . . .