Growing up, I spent many summers on the family farm in northwestern Illinois. At about the age of 12, I was considered responsible enough to carry my own rifle and a pocketful of bullets – and old enough to pitch in when my help was needed with the cattle.
My grandfather raised mostly Charolais, a breed of muscular white cattle whose cows are prized for their sweet temperament. He also owned a massive black bull of a different breed, though, that was erratic and ill-tempered. Annoy him and 1,000 pounds of fury would be unleashed. Raising cattle is a dangerous business.
“Get over here, Bobby,” one of the cowhands hollered at me one afternoon.
I was idling around the barn while the men who worked with the cattle were trying to force the black bull to walk up a plank into the back of a truck. He’d been sold; the buyer was waiting for delivery. “Here,” one of the men said to me roughly, “hold this steady.”
My job, he said, was to hold up a sheet of thin plywood perpendicular to the plank to form a kind of a chute. Then, the men would jostle and prod the obstinate bull, forcing him to lumber up into the truck. I was tall, skinny and eager to prove my mettle to these rugged cowboys. If all went as planned, no one would get hurt.
But that bull was as volatile as feared. Enraged at the prospect of being hustled up a plank, the bull took a few tentative steps then swung a heavily muscled shoulder against the plywood, knocking it out of my grip. For a fraction of a moment, we stood mere inches apart, staring at each other. His eyes were inky black and calculating.
Only one of us was going to survive this encounter, and the odds were in favor of the bull.
He let out a ferocious bellow and lunged forward, lowering his massive head, intending to hook me on those fearsome horns and toss me or trample me. I bolted. No one can outrun an angry bull – not even a terrified 12-year-old. I tore up the side of the truck and hurled myself over the railing of the corral. Gasping for breath, I looked back.
In disbelief, I saw the bull heave forward, trapping his leg between the truck and its front bumper, then fall thunderously onto the grass, bellowing in pain. His leg was broken, an agonizing and ultimately fatal injury. Moments later, one of the cowboys, compassionately, put the bull out of his misery.
This is a tough story to tell but one that holds more than a few life lessons. I was only 12, doing what I was told to do by a group of men I respected. In their haste, they made a poor decision, one that proved dangerous to me and, ultimately, costly to them. A bull worth thousands that morning ended up at the slaughterhouse that afternoon.
Like me, clients may find themselves in a position of vulnerability, often put there by the people they trust the most: business partners, friends, investors, financial advisors, family. These clients may come face-to-face with the bull: the IRS, state or local taxing authorities.
Sometimes, they will dodge danger by leaping into the corral. Other times, they’ll pay a higher price for that moment of miscalculation. That’s why reexamining and updating plans is as important as making them in the first place. No one should ever face a raging bull.