I have an unnatural fear of bulls. This fear dates back to early childhood stories of people who barely survived being gored by their own animals. Generally these were dairy bulls, which are far crankier than their cousins of the beef persuasion. I remember being terribly frightened when, on a play date at the home of my friend Henrietta, I saw a Holstein bull tethered to a fence, just one rope from freedom and a couple of 4-year-olds to toss in the air like matchsticks. Of course the bull remained tied to the fence and I wasn't killed, but the seed was firmly planted: I am very, very nervous around bulls. And showing fear around a large animal is not generally a good idea.

So what did I do with my Saturday? I went to the Red Bluff Bull Sale*, of course. The girls and I go every year, usually with my parents. Rather than bore you to death with a blow-by-blow description, how about a few highlights and some photos?

The auction. This is a good place to sit on one's hands, because things happen very quickly, and the merchandise is living and eats a lot of hay. You don't want to accidentally outbid Cowboy Bob when these things fetch $2000-3000 each or more. Dad was pleasantly surprised that the bulls seemed to be bringing good prices, in this tough economy. We talked to a seller who was very pleased, as well.

Smedley leaned over and asked me why the cowboy kept looking at us and then yelling at the auctioneer. "He's not looking at us, Smed -- there's a man behind us who is bidding. So don't point at anything, okay?"

"Look, Mama," said Sparky, "that cow pooped."

"That's a bull, Sparky."

"Oh. That bull pooped."

I didn't take any photos in the auction itself because I thought it might be bad etiquette. And things moved so fast there was never a break to take advantage of.

We wandered through the commercial booths, which is usually fun, but my crowd anxiety** reared its head after getting sandwiched between three too many cell phone-wielding saunterers. I was glad to be able to duck out a side door, back out into the warm January sun.

The best part is looking at the animals, near-perfect specimens of bovinity. We wandered through the barns where the children of bull sellers romped and played in their Wranglers and scuffed cowboy boots. These tiny kids have no fear of bulls whatsoever, I reminded myself. I overheard a mother yelling to her daughter as she raced by, "Don't eat any more sugar cubes, okay?" A universe unto itself within that sentence.

Here are a couple of impressive guys, both Gelbvieh bulls from the same ranch, the Cardey Ranches of Turlock, California. They look like boneless, soft leather bags full of melted butter, don't they?

And here are their ribbons, above them. The red one was grand champion of his breed (Gelbvieh) and the black one was reserve champion. Not bad from one ranch, huh?

This guy was Sparky's favorite. He's a Polled Hereford, and we thought he had the biggest head we've seen in a long time.

I'm pretty sure he was the Reserve Champion Polled Hereford, and he brought over $3000. Since he weighed about two and a half tons, there was just no way to get a single photo that would do justice to this massive animal.

This is the Bull Wash Area. I just made that name up, but that's what they do here. A nice shampoo and set for the boys.

"Smedley," I said to my elder daughter -- you do know that's not her real name, right? -- "You could be an auctioneer when you grow up, if you want to." Smedley nodded silently. "Of course," I continued, "You'd have to learn to talk slower." Smedley just glared at me. Her payback will be swift and sure someday. I'll have to wait another year to make that joke again.

It was a good day. We'll go again next year. I'll try not to be frightened, but it's pretty hopeless.

*Full name: The Red Bluff Bull and Gelding Sale. Apparently all entrants are prequalified by their genitalia, or lack thereof.

**Do I sound a tad neurotic? Yeah, that's what I thought.