It’s the Pitts: A Lotta Dough

By: Lee Pitts

We were in the middle of a bell-ringer of a bull sale with one guy in my section bidding on every bull that came through the ring. 

None of us ringside had ever seen him before, so we figured he must be a big bull buyer from out of state but he really didn’t look the part. He was wearing a blue shirt with a name patch over his heart which had “Frenchy” embroidered on it, so he looked more like an auto mechanic than he did a rancher. 

Later, a friend told me he saw Frenchy getting out of a bread delivery truck, which meant Mr. Frenchy Bread had a lot of dough – but it turned out to be the wrong kind of dough.

Something didn’t feel right about the guy. I didn’t like the fact he stood in the very back of the barn.

Serious bidders usually camp closer to the ring where their bids can be easier to spot, and they can look at the animal – but real pros never sit in the front row where it’s easier to get doused with fecal matter by bovines with manure-soaked mops for tails.

Frenchy sure seemed to be enjoying all of the attention directed his way, and the comely daughter of the breeder kept him well supplied with donuts and soft drinks. It worked because at this point Frenchy was the contending bidder on several bulls which sold for over $8,000 when the average was closer to $3,000.

At this point I got nervous, so I sent a brief note to the auctioneer suggesting, “Sell the guy a bull.” 

The auctioneer must have had his doubts too, and shortly thereafter, a bull entered the ring that was a perfect candidate. 

He looked like he was put together by a committee with one right foot pointed north and the other due west. His numbers were mediocre at best, and he had such a sour attitude, mothers drew their small children to their bosoms and grown men cowered in fear. 

The second Frenchy raised his hand to open the bidding, the auctioneer quick-hammered his gavel and said, “SOLD!” 

When he was announced as the winning bidder, Frenchy turned whiter than North Dakota in a blizzard and snuck out the back of the barn as I expected he might. 

I finally ran him down to get his bidder number as he was trying to leak into the landscape, and when I caught up with him at the door of his bread truck, I said, “I need your bidder number.” 

He uttered the most feared words in the auction business, “Oh, I was just trying to help.”

It seems Frenchy was the much-dreaded auction junkie who had seen a poster on a telephone pole and followed the signs to the sale. Frenchy got hot flashes by living vicariously and seeing how many times he could bid without getting caught. 

It was a game, and I’d encountered his kind before.

Meanwhile, I dragged my tail back into the barn where everyone was waiting on me before we could proceed. 

Instead of being smart and yelling out, “The guy was just swatting at flies,” or “He was just scratching his nose,” I pulled a dumb stunt and told the truth. 

“The guy said he was just trying to help,” I said.

A brouhaha ensued when all of the buyers realized they’d just paid an inflated amount for their bulls because a bread truck driver ran the price up. Naturally, the bull buyers wondered if there’d been some sort of foul play, but the breeder insisted Frenchy was not a member of his immediate family.

If you see Frenchy at a sale, please be advised he’s a wanted man – both by the authorities and a bunch of ranchers who’ve formed their own posse and would like nothing better than to string him up at a necktie party.

Since I was blamed by the conspiracy theorists for my role in the incident, I took the first opportunity to leak out of the landscape too, so I don’t know if the breeder made a price adjustment or not. 

But, I did notice the following year we had a light crowd and there was a sign at the ranch entrance which read, “NO HELP WANTED.”