when I was little, once we moved to the US, we moved to a beautiful farm in Maine and bought an ox. my parents idealistically thought that he would help them work the farm; my dad made him a cart and he had a harness and everything (we also had a barn at the time). Well, apparently oxen work best in twos, and to top it off, Boris had been raised as a...pet. So you can imagine his outrage at being expected to work. One day he took off through the woods, ripping apart his harness and dragging his cart to splinters. Another of Boris' endearing traits was that he loved him some patchouli, so much so that he decided that whoever was wearing it was obviously in town for a booty call. I'll just say that my parents' friends were pretty much all hippies and leave it at that. My dad decided that a roto-tiller might be nice and sold poor old Boris.