We woke up the other morning, peered out the second-story window, and witnessed an uninvited visitor to our property. A very tastey-looking large bovine was standing in the middle of our field of dead grass. He was a red hereford, I think. Likely visiting from the North, which of course is the line of neighbors I don’t know well (the rear of our properties meet, but it’s all field/pasture) and who also aren’t listed in the phone book. Every time some daggum interlopers of God’s creatures visit, it’s from that direction. The one neighbor I knew to call had a busy phone line.

It’s not like I’m unwilling to share some grass, really. It’s just that, well, the grass in the pasture is long since dead, because we are very lazy poor irrigators. But our lawn is green (automatic sprinklers, of course). And our fences faulty. Our new fancy neighbors have even greener grass, and they have no fences at all. So I loaded 3 kids in carseats and drove around the mile (like around-the-block, but bigger) and started knocking on doors. Mr. Smith (busy-phone-line) wasn’t home. Right. Neither was his neighbor, Mr. Johnson. Real names for once, I swear. Mrs. Wright pointed across the street and said the cows belonged to the accountant in that office (that’s an office?), and he leases from Smith and Johnson.

I found the accountant, told him my dilemma, and he said he’d drive over and see if it was his cow. Most of his are black, but he had a couple reds (those redheads are always trouble). Sure enough, it was his, and he set about walking through the field to steer the rebellious steer in the right direction. It didn’t work, and that middle-aged-ish, desk-type guy had to put it in high gear to chase after his beef. In the meantime, it got some other neighboring cows all riled up, and they were all running along the wrong fence line; the hereford, the other neighbor’s angus, and the accountant. (See figger 1)

He finally got it in the general direction of the northern boundary, where he slowed considerably. (See figger 2)

The steer stood with tail held high, rear to the fence, deciding his options. He finally turned and went to the fence. I was nursing the baby by this time and didn’t have the camera, but I had the view. The accountant got his second wind, seeing his cow was almost home, and he started waving his arms, jumping, whoopin’ and hollerin’, and going towards the cow, who finally bullied his way through the barbed wire to his rightful place. The accountant was all done in, I guess, because he didn’t even check the fence or shore it up at all. Just turned and drug himself back to his rig.

Part of me wants to feel bad for the guy, having to chase all over tarnation to take care of business, but then again, he should check his fence before he puts trouble-makin’ cows in the field. Plus, I hear he has some dogs