The perks of being "The Testicle Collector"...

When I was little, working cows with my grandpas, dad, uncles, cousins, and brothers (I was usually the only girl) was the most amazing, exciting adventure in the world. I loved getting to be that close to the cows. I honestly had dreams about getting to pet them while they were stuck in the head chute, squirming with fear and discomfort. I mean, yeah, I felt bad that they had to go through that, but everyone assured me we were helping them, so I was okay with it (for the most part).

For those of you that are "city folk" and have no idea what I'm talking about, working cows= rounding up the herd into a big pen, running them one-by-one down an alleyway, and catching their heads in a gate so they can't go crazy and hurt anyone while they are getting their vaccinations and dewormer. It is also when they are sprayed with fly spray, dehorned, checked for pregnancy/general health, and, if necessary, castrated. That was my favorite part because I had the best job that there was; I was the testicle collector.

Just so you get the idea..

Why did I collect the testicles, you ask? To give them to people that enjoyed eating them (not my family, don't worry). But that wasn't the most interesting part of my job (they were just slimy, bloody testicles that I threw in a bucket). No, the things I looked forward to the most were the scrotums. 

That's right, people; I liked the ball sacks. 

When castrating a cow (using the "cutting" method), the tip of the bull's ball sack is cut off and tossed aside so the baby producing treasures can be exposed. I don't know if anyone realized I did it, but I collected those ball sack tips right along with the testicles, and then I saved them (wow... I was a scrotum hoarder...). 

Ah, the memories.. (not my picture; don't worry, I always washed the blood off of them before I carried them away)

Organizing them by color, I laid them out on the table on Grandma's porch, and I kept them until someone threw them away or the dogs carried them off. I even named them (I distinctly remember a red one named Henry..). They were my fuzzy, little, scrotum toys, and I played with them for hours. They were just so soft. I cringe a little thinking about it now, but you know how when something is soft, people have the tendency to rub it against their faces? Yeah...I'm pretty sure I did that with my scrotum pieces. I ever so gently rubbed bovine ball sacks on my face. 

This is another one of those things you probably shouldn't tell people if you want to make friends...