Cows are Crazy!
As the storm clouds finally parted ways, I trudged through the muck and mire of my back cow pasture, determined to clean up the mess left behind. Huge limbs and debris were scattered like confetti after a party, and my trusty old 16-inch Poulan chainsaw was poised to expedite my efforts.
With the rain-soaked earth squishing beneath my boots, I heaved the chainsaw over my shoulder and headed towards a particularly gnarly fallen tree. The pungent aroma of wet hay and fly food lingered in the air as I sawed away at the branches, feeling a sense of accomplishment with each limb that surrendered to the bite of my tool.
In the midst of my arboreal conquest, the chain became dull. I was expecting this and proud of my forethought for having a sharpened backup. Unfortunately, I accidentally left it in the tool shed. After removing the dulled chain, I carefully set the machine on a wide, weathered tree stump. Then, I gingerly set off towards the shed. Little did I know, my seemingly harmless decision would set off a series of events that would turn my routine cleanup into a bovine circus.
With my back turned to unlatch the gate, I heard an unusual crunching sound behind me. I swiveled around, only to witness the absurd scene of my favorite holstein bull, Dozer, attempting to munch on the chainsaw like it was a piece of oversized cud.
"Dozer, you ornery oaf! What in the blazes do you think you're doing?" I bellowed, my eyes widening in disbelief.
The cow, seemingly unperturbed by my exclamation, chomped down on the chainsaw with a vigor usually reserved for the juiciest patches of grass. It dangled from his mouth like a metallic cigar, and he proceeded to lope across the field with the awkward grace that only a confused bull could muster.
Trepidation filled my heart as I realized that my trusty tool was now at the mercy of the grass grinders of a runaway bull. Without a second thought, I dashed after the renegade beef, my boots squish-squashing in the mud and my hat threatening to take wing in the gusty aftermath of the storm.
"Come back here, you durn brisket! That's not food! It’s MY SAW!" I hollered, waving my arms like a possessed scarecrow.
But Dozer, blissfully ignorant of the danger he posed to himself and my dear tool, continued his madcap gallop across the pasture. Just when I thought I had him cornered, Dozer spotted a forgotten roll of hay nearby. His eyes widened, and with a sudden halt that could rival a race car screeching to a stop, he dropped his metallic cigar like a hot potato. I, unfortunately, did not have the fortune to halt as he. Instead, found myself gliding right past him a couple of meters thanks to my boot catching a slippery cow patty. Down I went. No, my life didn't flash before me. But, my age sure did!
As I lay there, contemplating the irony of my situation, the ornery cow turned to face me as if surprised to see me prone. The wild glint in his eyes was replaced by something akin to sympathy. Before I knew it, he was curiously nuzzling my head, his mouth now full of hay. The chainsaw lay (momentarily) forgotten in the mud, and my frustration morphed into a mix of laughter and disbelief.
I couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Here I was, reclining in the mud with a toothless chainsaw abandoned at my side, while an oblivious bull accompanied me into a holy moment with our Maker. The anger that had fueled my pursuit melted away, replaced by the surreal feeling of awe that often accompanies the unpredictable life of a farmer.
God is great! Mud is gross. And cows are crazy!