I recently spent $6,500 on a registered Black Angus bull, confident I was strengthening my herd and investing wisely in the future of my cattle. He had the build, the bloodline, and the presence I’d hoped for. On paper, he was everything right.
But when I turned him out with the cows, something didn’t add up. He grazed. Calmly. Patiently. Day after day, he showed no interest in the work I’d brought him here to do. The longer it went on, the more doubt settled in. Had I rushed the purchase? Misjudged him? Misjudged myself?
It’s uncomfortable to watch an investment sit still. Money has a way of sharpening our anxiety. I found myself measuring his worth by immediate results, as though growth must always prove itself quickly.
Eventually, I called the vet. After a thorough check, he looked up and said, “He’s healthy. Strong. Just young and inexperienced.” There was no defect—only timing. He gave me a small bottle of supplements and told me to give the bull one a day.
I was skeptical, but I followed the advice.
Within days, the change was unmistakable. The bull who had seemed indifferent became determined. Focused. Tireless. He began breeding the cows with an energy that left no room for doubt. What had looked like weakness turned out to be immaturity waiting for its moment.
Then came the fence.
Driven by more enthusiasm than boundaries, he broke through into the neighbor’s pasture and extended his services there as well. The neighbors were not amused. I apologized, reinforced the fencing, and accepted that strength without containment becomes someone else’s problem.
There was something humbling in the whole episode. I had been ready to label him a mistake. Instead, he simply needed time—and guidance. My impatience had nearly written a verdict too soon.
I did taste one of those pills out of curiosity. Mild, minty, almost unremarkable. It struck me how often the most significant changes begin with something small and steady, not dramatic.
In the end, the bull proved his value. But the lesson was less about his vigor and more about restraint—mine and his. Potential is real, but so are fences. Timing matters. So do boundaries.
I still repair the occasional post. And I still remember how quickly I was prepared to give up on something that simply wasn’t ready yet.