(Note: No animals were harmed in the story that follows. I cannot say the same for the humans.)

After stuffing ourselves with turkey, ham, and momma’s famous chocolate cake on Thanksgiving Day 2008, my brother Greg, our nephew Matthew, and I sauntered out to Greg’s pickup to ride over to the pasture to band a bull calf. (Banding turns a bull into a steer. Think of it this way: Bull = tough steaks; Steer = tender steaks.)

Our target was a solid Black Angus calf; a couple hundred pounds of pure muscle armed with four hooves that hit like hammers. Lacking the proper tools to catch and restrain him, we did it the way my grandfather did back when we were boys. We hemmed the calf into a pen with the intention of catching him with our bare hands and pinning him as we did the deed.

The calf had different intentions altogether.

It took a while to herd him into the pen and then the real work started. As he tried to run past me, I launched the flying tackle that had been the terror of backyard football when I was a lad. I was too slow by fifty years and 1/2 second. (In my defense, I point out that at least I discovered that I could tumble head over heels without breaking anything that I actually still use.)

Matthew grabbed the little monster around the neck for a whole second before it threw him into an iron gate. Then it turned and ran directly over Greg, stopping just long enough to do a short River Dance on Greg’s chest before galloping away. He stopped at the other end of the pen and waited for us. Though Greg says I imagined it, to me it looked like little Lord Voldemort actually grinned at us.

The three of us started across that pen, side by side, with set jaws and stern eyes; the Earp brothers headed into the OK Corral. I guess the calf had grown a little too confident because I got close enough to grab an ear. That brought him up short long enough for Matthew to jump on his back. I am not quite sure how it happened but one moment Matthew was on top of the calf and the next he was flat on his back with his legs scissored around its neck. For a second the wild thought hit me that the calf had the perfect opportunity to turn Matthew into a steer. Before the bull figured that out, Greg grabbed his tail and one back leg. I barreled into him from the side just as Matthew twisted his body in a wrestling move that I think I once saw Hulk Hogan use. Down the calf went, with the three of us scrambling to pin down whatever part we could grab.

Matthew trapped its head and front legs. I lay across his mid-section and held the hind leg most likely to inflict damage. Greg fell across the hindquarters and fumbled in his back pocket for the banding tool.

That’s when we realized that he was a she.

As we hobbled back to the truck, Greg rubbing his shoulder, Matthew looking through the rip in his jeans at his cut knee, and me brushing filth off my scraped elbow, I suggested that we shoot the thing. Greg seemed to think that profit trumps vengeance, so we climbed slowly into the truck and headed for home.

I’ve always thought Greg to be a wise man, so I asked what he thought the lesson was in what we just experienced. He offered two: “Always have the right tool” and “Plan ahead.”