I HAVE this aversion to dentists. Nothing personal, of course. A number of them are good friends of mine. It’s just a phobia I share with the bulk of the human community, an issue that stems from my childhood when dental science had just emerged from the dark ages, and which occupied space in my tiny mind normally reserved for Dracula, Frankenstein and other frightful experiences. Then I was introduced to Napoleon. A great big lump of a bull, six years old, carrying nearly a ton of prime Limousin flesh and with an exceedingly sweet tooth. If he was a child at the mall, he would most likely have set up tent in Sweets From Heaven, or be found sampling Mozart’s ice-cream delights. His hang-out (when he is not courting the bovid girls) is a cosy camp close to the homestead on a cane and beef farm deep in the bowels of the Mid Illovo flats. Here he will usually be found in a sunny spot staring absently into the distance while chewing slowly and deliberately on the tops and leaf left-overs from the sugar-cane harvest, thinking languid thoughts or, more likely, basking in a contented vacuum where thought processes are foreign concepts. On these farms, the cane tops are very handy supplements to the normal bovine diet and all cattle will munch happily on the greenery, particularly in winter when the grass is dry and lacking in nutrients.