Thursday, June 7, 2007

Stampede

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So the waste of space neighbors had another (multiple) cow break out this morning. As I was trying to drive to work. There they were: three surly calves traipsing along the road. I slowed to a crawl and thought I would be able to squeak by them. As if.

They began running ahead of me, veering back and forth. One brown bastard turned and was about to charge my car. The only thing I thought was no...wait til it's paid off...sweet jesus.

Finally one of the ridiculous slope headed people who works for the wos neighbors comes running and herds the calves back into their enclosure. You see, the calves can walk BETWEEN the strands of barbed wire. Very effective.

This has been the third escape since May. I only learned about the second one a day ago. That escapee wrecked another neighbor's yard and mock oranges--totally snapped them off and tromped things down. Was there an apology? An offer to replace or pay for the damaged plants? What do you think?

Sadly, all my efforts to google "fat man with a mullet in a camel light tee shirt and feed cap" or any of its permutations turned up nothing. I really wish I could've snapped some photos of this prize in action. I bet some of you singles out there would have begged for his contact info. He was poetry in motion. It actually made the whole ludicrous experience worth it. Of course it would've been better if he'd gotten kicked or fallen in a fresh cow flop, but ya can't have everything.

1 comment:

Keith Woodruff said...

Your yard must be their heaven ...

The Heaven of Animals

By James Dickey

Here they are. The soft eyes open.
If they have lived in a wood
It is a wood.
If they have lived on plains
It is grass rolling
Under their feet forever.

Having no souls, they have come,
Anyway, beyond their knowing.
Their instincts wholly bloom
And they rise.
The soft eyes open.

To match them, the landscape flowers,
Outdoing, desperately
Outdoing what is required:
The richest wood,
The deepest field.

For some of these,
It could not be the place
It is, without blood.
These hunt, as they have done,
But with claws and teeth grown perfect,

More deadly than they can believe.
They stalk more silently,
And crouch on the limbs of trees,
And their descent
Upon the bright backs of their prey

May take years
In a sovereign floating of joy.
And those that are hunted
Know this as their life,
Their reward: to walk

Under such trees in full knowledge