Una Cochrane recently sent me a second edition of her book, ‘A Keen Eye’.

My cousin, Euna, was looking through the book and came across the story of Ossan, the bullock, which Una Cochrane had copied from me.

The story featured Iain MacQuarrie, who died recently. I thought it would be nice to re-tell the story in Am Pàipear as it shows what a good friend Iain was. He did lots of favours for me over the years. I miss him.

There was always something appealing about the black bullock Ossan. Every autumn he got a reprieve, because he was so happy and we wanted him to enjoy another summer. However, we decided it was time for him to go as he was now five and we needed some decent beef.

Ossan was driven to the abattoir at Lochmaddy around lunchtime. I must admit my heart was sore. I wished we could all be vegetarians. Even my mother, who was always very practical, said: “Surely you’re not killing that beautiful beast.” Well, what else could we do with him? I wished he’d been trained to pull a cart and maybe he could have taken the peats home or carried bales of fodder in the winter.

I fed the cattle later the same afternoon. I counted the sheaves of oats and sadly returned two to the stack and went on my way. Angus was still fishing for velvet crabs. I arrived home and my neighbour Harriet waved me down. “There’s been a phone call from the butcher. Your bullock ran away. He jumped the pens,” said Harriet. I thought she was joking. “You’ve got to go to Lochmaddy,” she said. I then drove the 14 miles to Lochmaddy to see what was happening to poor Ossan.

Ossan had swam the loch and ran across a muddy field. When he heard my voice, he knew which direction to go. He jumped the cattle grid and then he saw the familiar pick-up. He knew he was on the right road for Kyles. When he heard my voice again he followed me. I felt guilty that he still trusted me. Sometimes he would stand and look across a loch, but I would frantically shout: “Ossan greis ort!” That’s Gaelic for hurry up! It was nearly dark and he faithfully followed me while I drove in first gear.

We must have gone about five miles and the ferry traffic was coming. Then a car came towards me, so I stopped in the passing place. It was Rev John Smith, who I knew well, so I asked him to phone my crofter friend, Iain MacQuarrie, to tell him what was wrong and ask him to bring his cattle trailer.

I carried on for another couple of miles, still coaxing Ossan. He was vulnerable in the dark, as his coat was black, but he kept close to the jeep. Iain then appeared in the rear and of course he had his trailer.

Now, it was fine that Ossan knew my voice, but he had never had a rope on. We chose a wide passing place. I had everything in the pick-up. I knew I had to put a rope on these wide horns and if I missed I probably wouldn’t get a second chance. I lay a sheaf of corn in the middle of the road and also a few cobs. Now, this was going to be hard.

I had a lasso ready but I had never put a lasso on a beast. I kept talking to Ossan and as his head was bent down, I took a deep breath and draped the lasso over his horns. As the rope was long, Iain tied the end to the passing place for we knew we wouldn’t be able to hold a big strong bullock. He went berserk. We tightened the rope and as Iain had brought another rope, we put that on him and cut the first rope. Some cars had stopped to help. Before cutting the first rope, we put the end of the second rope into the trailer. We dragged him in and we shut the door. What a relief!

The story of Ossan doesn’t end there. Some time after his escape from Lochmaddy, he set out on a long journey to Germany. Hert Dill has offered him a permanent home and wouldn’t be killing him. I hoped, during his time in Germany, that now he might hear a Scottish voice, even better, a Gaelic one.

This month’s Bible readings are John, Chapter 6, and Psalm 107.