I have a book with me of course, but am in no hurry to read. I want to bask in the bird calls--so many today!--inhale the scent of wet grass and dirt, smile at the clusters of jonquils and daffodils that have sprung up, adding floral sunshine along the gravel road that borders our property. I turn onto that road, careful to step over the trenches made by yesterday's furious rain and hail, and lurch to a stop. On the path, headed toward me are three cows. They halt, remarkably in tandem, nine or ten yards from me. They're the size of the three in the above first picture, a Black Angus on the outsides, Red Angus in the center. A cow version of an Oreo cookie. With red velvet cake filling instead of crème.
"Well. Good morning, ladies," I call out. I always say hello to any cattle I encounter. It would be rude not to.
The Red Angus looks at the Black Angus on her right with a, “Do you think she sees us?” expression on her face.
Black Angus on the left has a, “We can take her out, no problem,” squinty-eyed look.
Angus on the right looks wide-eyed, caught in the act scared. An, “Uh-oh, girls, I think we’re in trouble,” gaze.
"You need to turn around and go home," I say to the trio as I walk away, leaving them to continue on with their country lane stroll. I keep an eye on them though, thinking they're probably going to take the road that leads to the back end of our property. That little road and our land are popular with runaway, adventurous cattle looking for rendezvous spots. I'll tell you about that in a little bit.
I'm about a quarter mile away from the three strollers, when I hear a man call out, "Betsy! Molly! Suzie! Get back here right now!" Then a dog barks. Rapid, high pitched, frantic barks. I can't see either man or dog but based on the direction their voices are coming from, I guess them to be Mr. Johnson and one of his hounds.
A Logan look-alike with The Stare. You talking to me?
Call it a Stock Option.
Some of the "girls" in Logan's harem
So I didn't do it alone. The MOTH BNTB, and my sister and her family who had just arrived for Thanksgiving dinner joined me.
Logan gave us his, pfft, I Could Crush You With One Hoof, thousand-yard stare and continued on his way, the Shaggy Ladies keeping a respectful distance behind him.
There's one in the group with horns like this:
We were not successful in getting the group to make a U-Turn and go back from whence they came, which is how we came to meet our nearest neighbor up the dirt path. Mr. Johnson wasn't aware Logan and his adoring fans had busted out, but he took matters in hand, or hands. An empty bucket in one hand, a wooden sheperd's crook in the other. All the way to our farthest field. (When cattle want to, they can shift into second gear and cover some area.) Mr.J. bangs the crook on the bucket, repeatedly shouting, "Logan! You're A Very Bad Boy!"
I am not making that up. He really did call this beast of a bull a Bad Boy. And it worked. Well, that and all the banging and Mr. J's impersonation of an Australian Sheperd herding cattle. Poor guy was red-faced and gasping for air by the time he got the wayward group back to the dirt road and turned in the direction toward their own home.
Since that day, Logan and the Shaggy Ladies have called our home theirs a number of times. And sometimes they bring friends. Like geese. And goats.