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Strangely enough, standing near bulls of this size and with this attitude is not my idea of fun.

My fitness programme – moving cattle every other day – is apparently ‘green exercise’, not because grass is involved but because it serves a purpose. However, like other fitness programmes, I soon didn’t want to do this one either.

After turning off the power, I’d pin down the electric fence in the technosystem and step aside so the cattle – six mobs of 17 – could step into fresh pasture. Being a few feet from the leaders posed no problem – until they grew and grew and grew.

Bulls put on about a kilogram a day, therefore I was moving an extra 700 kilograms or so of bull each week – an extra three tonne a month. Plus bulls get stroppy in summer and kick up their heels.

One day I turned around to find a bull was right behind me. The next day, a bull ran at me.

Hoping the farmer might move it (perhaps to the far end of the farm), I pointed him out. “Him?” scoffed Rex. “He looks like someone’s pet.”

The next day, another bull took a prancing charge at me. I yelled. It stopped. It pranced. I yelled. It stopped. It pranced. I yelled – the same expletive each time followed by the word “off”.

Then I heard the farmer call, “I’m here. I’ll save you.” He was running towards me, his arms outstretched. Sometimes he’s so silly.

“I’m not moving the bulls any more,” I declared. “I’ll build fences instead.”

After I’ve pinned down the fence, the bulls – which are keen to get onto fresh grass – step over the wire – while I rapidly step aside

Carrying about 30 electric fence standards and a reel designed by a man for use by men is the reason I was moving the cattle in the first place – it requires no muscle power.

Every day the farmer tried to coax me to return to cattle moving. Each day I’d say no before loading up and stumbling away to fumble through building the next fence.

“You need to get over your fear of bulls,” he said until finally he conceded: “You’re really not going to move the bulls, are you.”

“No,” I replied – not until May when the big boys will be replaced by weaners which will be more my size – until they grow.

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Imagine walking into a bull in the dark…

As we are a fully trained search and rescue team thanks to a late night request to help find a fisherman missing on the Kaipara Harbour, here are some handy hints, with the tips following the lessons and the most important tip last because that was our learning process.

The farmer and I were asleep when neighbours across the river phoned at 11.30pm. A fisherman hadn’t arrived for a rendezvous a few kilometres further up the river. It was howling a gale and, had the motor failed, his boat might have washed up on the other side of our farm. Could we check?

We bolted out of bed and pulled on warm clothes. I grabbed a hat, jacket and our biggest torch. Yes, the farmer jumped into the truck without a torch presumably figuring the headlights would do the work.

After driving to the point near the house (no luck there), we headed through the farm where the torch came in handy.

Tip Six: Take a torch.

We walked along the beach then, because the tide was so high, through a wet, puggy paddock. I asked the farmer to slow down so he wouldn’t leave me in the dark which gave him a bright idea – he could travel faster without me, so why not leave me all alone in the dark!

Sure, I said as he took off for the bluff with the one and only torch.

Tip Five: If possible, take a torch for each person.

It was a black, black night. I couldn’t see a thing, including the nearby towering pines which didn’t break the screaming wind. I envied Kate the dog who’d come for the adventure, but had sensibly stayed with the truck.

Tip Four: If you can wangle it, stay with the vehicle.

And it was so cold. Lucky I grabbed that jacket and hat.

Tip Three: Dress warm.

While I stood in the paddock my mind galloped. What if the farmer fell and dropped the torch? How long would I wait? Could I get back to the truck? I couldn’t use the fence as a guide – it was electrified. Were there bulls in the paddock? Imagine bumbling into a sleeping bull.

After what seemed like forever – about 20 minutes – I saw the farmer’s torch flash and he showed up shortly afterwards having found nothing.

As we stumbled back across the paddock I suggested holding hands would make things easier. The farmer said he doubted this was acceptable on a search and rescue mission, but held my hand anyway.

Tip Two: Hold hands, especially if it’s really dark.

We got home at 12.15pm to find two messages from our neighbours. The first had been recorded moments after we left – as they’d watched our vehicle lights disappear through the farm, they spotted the lights of a boat heading up the harbour. The second message, at five past midnight, confirmed the missing boatie had arrived. Sigh… if only we’d known.

Tip One: Take a cell phone. Then HQ can phone if the lost person is found and you can immediately return to your warm and snuggly bed.

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Bulls stepping over a wire in the intensive grazing system

Farmers use special language to speak to dogs even though they – the dogs – can work things out themselves and understand conversational English. ‘The farmer’ appears to think dogs understand expletives and he uses terms like “Git away back” and “Git in behind” which I suspect are the farming equivalent of legalese which we all know is designed to make us feel out of the loop.

Rex’s dog Kate recently proved that she knows more than she lets on.

This year’s yearling bulls are in a grazing system that relies on hot wires – electrified tapes. To reach fresh grass, the cattle step over a wire which we drop onto the ground and lift up afterwards.

When young bulls are still figuring out the grazing system, mobs sometimes get mixed up and have to be returned to their mobs. All it takes is a power cut, a stray bull or, on one occasion, low-flying ducks.

While the farmer separates and sorts the bulls, I stand in the make-shift ‘gateway’, i.e. a gap in the fence, stepping aside at crucial moments to let bulls through.

During the last reshuffle I was in a mellow frame of mind and everything went so smoothly, the farmer said afterwards, “Well done. We’ll make a cattle handler of you yet.”

Soon afterwards, while he was way down the paddock, I had to coax some inexperienced bulls to make the daring step over the wire. Kate marked me like a rugby defender, moving as I walked forward, trotting ahead if a bull looked reluctant or threatened to head in the wrong direction.

She hadn’t been asked to do this – I don’t know how to ask a dog to do anything as smart as what Kate was doing – and only when she had overseen the last bull safely into its paddock did she gallop off.

Soon afterwards the farmer asked me to go and open a gate so he could move some sheep and that’s when my dog Floss and I found Kate a few hundred yards away chasing birds (a favourite pastime). She was supposed to be helping her boss.

Armed with the thrilling knowledge that I have potential as a cattle handler, I figured I’d try advanced dog handling. Flapping an arm in the direction of Rex, I said, “Kate, get back there and help Rex with some sheep.”

Kate’s bat ears perked up and, after a second’s indecision, she took off at a gallop. I’d take the credit, but you already know Kate’s the one with the brains.