How to Feel Amazing Love for a Scottish Highland Ox

Topper galloped to the fence, his shaggy black bangs flopping into his eyes. Finn lumbered along behind. Topper skidded to a stop at the wire fence, “No treats today, old friend. We have work to do,” I told him.

Topper, a 2,000-pound mountain of muscle and fluff, strolled through the gate with the self-confidence of a rock star entering stage left. When I called “Halt!” he stopped in mid-stride. Not bad for a guy with the attention span of, well… a bovine.

Topper stood politely while I put a halter on him, tied him up, and fetched Finn, his less-athletic partner-in-crime. Both waited as I slipped the yoke over their shoulders, secured the bows, and unclipped their halters. Show time.

Mom as Teacher

Cattle are good at many things—chewing, mooing, plotting world domination—but the one that still amazes is how willing they are to obey. Topper’s education started the day he was born, May 2012. His mom, Maya, laid down the ground rules: follow me, don’t sass me, and don’t wander off unless you want to get eaten. Simple but effective.

At six months, post-weaning, he crept close enough to sniff my head. (I’m assuming I passed his “smell test.”) Eventually, he accepted grain from my hand. I had officially been promoted from random human to “replacement mom.”

Of course, back then, I had no idea how to train cattle. Horses, yes. Cows? Nope. My crash course came at the Hopkinton Fair, where 4-H kids—half my age and twice my confidence—were steering 1,500-pound oxen around obstacle courses using nothing but sticks and their voices. No ropes. No halters. Just, “Gee! Haw! Whoa!”

I was stunned. How were these kids bossing around bovine bulldozers without anything to hold onto? Witchcraft? Bribery? Hidden jetpacks?

False Confidence

Armed with help from patient teamsters (some young enough to be my grandchildren), I eventually got my first pair, Topper and Flash, to follow voice commands. They listened in the show ring, they listened at home… but in a parade? Let’s just say I clutched that lead rope like a nun holding rosary beads during a thunderstorm.

The rope was my baby blanket, my security system, my “panic button.” But deep down, I knew the rope wasn’t the real control. What kept my oxen in line was trust: they wanted to be with me. Now, after years of practice (and me finally unclenching my death grip on the rope), Topper and his new buddy Finn will follow me on voice alone. No ropes. No props. Just trust.

And when a 2,000-pound creature decides you’re worth listening to, it feels a little like magic. Not the glittery fairy-tale kind—more like the “pinch me, I can’t believe this works” kind. The kind of magic we could all use.