Everyone is Nice Till the Cow Gets Into the Garden
Ya' know, this story about cows havin' moods and bein' happy or holdin' grudges brings back the memory of the most ignominious moment of my young canine life.
Gotta' admit we've been lucky to live in great places like the ranch with lots of room to run and roll and chase most anythin' we wanted. Well, we were smart enough to avoid the coyotes across the way and the Great Horned Owl couple who'd occasionally flap down from their cliffside condo to sit on the fence and stare. I'd say they were lickin' their chops but I don't think owls have chops.
Anyway, the rules of the ranch yard were simple. Don't go into the field and harrass the cows in case the cow manager showed up on his mule. (Yeah. Mule. Doesn't that just shoot the ole' cowboy image all to hell.)
Now just in case you forgot--we're dogs. So what are you gonna' bet we pretty much ignored that rule? Dad was always sneakin' us down for a couple of games of whack-a-gopher, plus there were just piles of fascinatin' stuff to roll in. 'Course we learned one roll was worth a thousand baths so we all retired from that sport at a very young age.
I was still in my teen-age year (we only get one ya' know, and aren't all you parents of human children jealous) when a whole bunch of cow miniatures showed up along with the regular sized mooers. We pups sat at the fence tryin' to figure 'em out when one finally moseyed over, bein' the neighborly sort and all. Turns out they were kids too--somethin' called heifers. Well, we just had to go play. That's what neighborhood kids do, isn't it?
A quick check to make sure AHM had gone back inside the house and it was par-tay! The regular size cows didn't seem to mind at all. Probably glad to get the little suckers off their hands--er--hooves--er--whatever-- for a while. We did a little nose-touchin'--butt sniffin' bein' out of the question--and other sorts of "nice to meet ya'" stuff, then got down to some serious activity. Those heifers were pretty good at tag, not as good at "herd-'em," and waaaayyy too eager to show off their version of those Ram Tough truck ad rams. (Size does matter in that game.)
All and all, though, we were havin' a great time playin' jumpin' jacks, ring-around-the-heifer, and dodge 'em. Then we heard a bellow that wasn't from a cow. We were busted.
Everyone else ran for the fence, wigglin' under as far from AHM as they could get. Me, I didn't run from anythin'. I was the Alpha--or would be someday--and had my rep to maintain. So I walked. Even swaggered a little just so AHM would know it was my choice to come back.
Now that I think about it, I shoulda' known somethin' was wrong from the look on AHM's face. She got this weird quirk to her lips and her mouth opened and closed a few times like an inarticulate fish. Then I saw the other guys lined up starin' at me.
I remember thinkin': Hrumph. Wimps.
I remember thinkin': I don't run the second AHM hollers.
I remember thinkin': I'm showin' 'em who's top dog around--
Bam!
Somethin' hard and fuzzy smacked into my rear. I went ass over Dentabone®, flipped at least three times, landed on my nose, and whipped around to find one of those bratty heifers grinnin' at me--and getting' ready for another run.
I had to make an immediate executive deicision. Dignity… Disgrace… Another bang in the butt…
At least I can claim the speed record for gettin' under a fence.
posted by Harrison at 11:41 AM
Gotta' admit we've been lucky to live in great places like the ranch with lots of room to run and roll and chase most anythin' we wanted. Well, we were smart enough to avoid the coyotes across the way and the Great Horned Owl couple who'd occasionally flap down from their cliffside condo to sit on the fence and stare. I'd say they were lickin' their chops but I don't think owls have chops.
Anyway, the rules of the ranch yard were simple. Don't go into the field and harrass the cows in case the cow manager showed up on his mule. (Yeah. Mule. Doesn't that just shoot the ole' cowboy image all to hell.)
Now just in case you forgot--we're dogs. So what are you gonna' bet we pretty much ignored that rule? Dad was always sneakin' us down for a couple of games of whack-a-gopher, plus there were just piles of fascinatin' stuff to roll in. 'Course we learned one roll was worth a thousand baths so we all retired from that sport at a very young age.
I was still in my teen-age year (we only get one ya' know, and aren't all you parents of human children jealous) when a whole bunch of cow miniatures showed up along with the regular sized mooers. We pups sat at the fence tryin' to figure 'em out when one finally moseyed over, bein' the neighborly sort and all. Turns out they were kids too--somethin' called heifers. Well, we just had to go play. That's what neighborhood kids do, isn't it?
A quick check to make sure AHM had gone back inside the house and it was par-tay! The regular size cows didn't seem to mind at all. Probably glad to get the little suckers off their hands--er--hooves--er--whatever-- for a while. We did a little nose-touchin'--butt sniffin' bein' out of the question--and other sorts of "nice to meet ya'" stuff, then got down to some serious activity. Those heifers were pretty good at tag, not as good at "herd-'em," and waaaayyy too eager to show off their version of those Ram Tough truck ad rams. (Size does matter in that game.)
All and all, though, we were havin' a great time playin' jumpin' jacks, ring-around-the-heifer, and dodge 'em. Then we heard a bellow that wasn't from a cow. We were busted.
Everyone else ran for the fence, wigglin' under as far from AHM as they could get. Me, I didn't run from anythin'. I was the Alpha--or would be someday--and had my rep to maintain. So I walked. Even swaggered a little just so AHM would know it was my choice to come back.
Now that I think about it, I shoulda' known somethin' was wrong from the look on AHM's face. She got this weird quirk to her lips and her mouth opened and closed a few times like an inarticulate fish. Then I saw the other guys lined up starin' at me.
I remember thinkin': Hrumph. Wimps.
I remember thinkin': I don't run the second AHM hollers.
I remember thinkin': I'm showin' 'em who's top dog around--
Bam!
Somethin' hard and fuzzy smacked into my rear. I went ass over Dentabone®, flipped at least three times, landed on my nose, and whipped around to find one of those bratty heifers grinnin' at me--and getting' ready for another run.
I had to make an immediate executive deicision. Dignity… Disgrace… Another bang in the butt…
At least I can claim the speed record for gettin' under a fence.
posted by Harrison at 11:41 AM
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