Once there was a bull who, aware of the stereotype, determined to be careful and judicious in all his conduct. “First, do no harm,” was a phrase he’d heard the vet mutter, and he thought it was an excellent motto.
Wandering in the pasture, he chanced upon an ant colony. “How do, ants?” “Things are on schedule!” they replied, with unsubtle head-gestures to the nearby grasshoppers. The bull went on his way, proud of himself for not stepping on the mound.
Spring came, and with it rain. With his superior vantage point (five feet off the ground) the bull saw a small current of water coming for the ant mound—that is, a “small current” for him, but for the ants a diluvian cataclysm.
“Ants, the flood’s coming, time to go!” he warned, but they weren’t sure if he meant that like, metaphorically, or whatever. And some didn’t really trust him, for past un-bull-like behavior (what kind of bull tries to avoid ant mounds?)
To be sure, he could have dug them up with his big, powerful hooves, but this might damage his relationship with the ants.
So they died.