Reasonably Educated Bumpkins

Had a little drama yesterday that ended in tears. Not mine (this time), although I did consider it. Maybe I'll cry later (probably).

Headed over to feed Mom and Dad's cats, fish and cows Saturday morning before breakfast. On a working cattle ranch, "before breakfast" would be two hours before the sun comes up, but on The Pushing Water Ranch that's about 8:30. The girls and I were all bundled up, they in unmatched bright pink and green socks and such, I in my hideous old tweed coat and ridiculous warm hat and muffler. Yes, I said muffler. I know this isn't Antarctica but I am a weenie and I get COLD.

As we walked down the road toward the hay barn I saw a cow out on the road. Crud. A little black steer sneaked into Dad's east pasture several months ago, a fugitive from some other rancho, and he has figured out how to get in and out of the pasture at will, to eat the tender new green grass just outside the confines of his pasture fence. Dad's on vacation and he'll deal with it when he gets back, but in the meantime -- at least until the steer's true owners get off their hineys and come get him -- the little guy has a sweet deal, and his little game hasn't been a problem.

(It wasn't this little guy, but the culprit looks just like him.)

Until this morning. Apparently he brought some friends to the banquet this morning, and one of them, a large white-faced Hereford cow, was lumbering down the middle of the road toward the girls and me as we headed off to feed hay. I calmly pushed her back toward the weak spot in the fence through which I knew she'd made her breakout. As I did so, however, I noticed a few other cows way down the fenceline, grazing outside the fence -- FIVE others, to be exact. And just at that moment an old Ford Bronco came barreling up the road and pulled over. A woman I've never seen before jumped out of her car and almost sprinted toward me. She was lean and sinewy, and she bore the weather-lined face of a capable rancher type; probably a horse woman, I decided.

"THOSE YOUR COWS?" she hollered.

"Sort of," I waffled.

"WELL, YOU'RE GONNA NEED TO GET THEM BACK IN THE PASTURE, OR THEY'LL GET OUT ON THE MAIN ROAD, AND THEN THAT'LL BE BAD. LAW SUIT OR SOMETHIN'." These sentences came at me like machine gun fire. I'm thinking, Cows're out, lady -- it isn't an international incident. But okay, she's being helpful, and she thinks I'm totally new here. I mentally inventoried my appearance: silly hat and matching muffler, hideous coat, sweat pants, white tennis shoes. Two little girls with me dressed in pink, orange and purple. Yup, she thinks I'm new here.

"YA GOT A HUSBAND?" Whoa. What exactly does THAT mean?

"Uh, yeah . . . he'll be home about 2:30. But these aren't our cows; they're my dad's, and he's on vacation --"

"WELL, YOU SHOULD TELL THAT GUY TO GET HIS HORSE AND ROUND THEM UP. NO WAY YOU'RE GONNA GET THEM IN WITHOUT A HORSE." That guy? My husband? Or did she mean my dad -- the one who's not here -- and did she think he has a horse? I could have spent a long time giggling to myself over the visual image of either my husband or my father trying to herd cattle on a horse, but there was no time. This woman had probably been up since 4:00 drinking black coffee and fuming, and she was in a huge hurry, apparently.

"Yeah, I'll have to do that," I answered without irony. As nice and helpful as she truly was I just wanted her to go away, because I really didn't feel like explaining to her how grown people who raised cattle could actually do so without the company of horses. Or why I wasn't freaked out that the cows were out. I guess I'm a bit too Type B, or philosophical, or maybe I just have my head in the sand, but years of practical experience with cows getting out has taught me that they usually don't stray far from the herd. They want a taste of freedom, but more than that they want green grass. And they'll need water after they have their grass, so they usually stick pretty close to the water troughs.

So after a few more manic pronouncements this good samaritan jumped into her vehicle and drove on up the road. I decided to go feed the cows while I figured out my next move, so back we went in the direction of the hay barn.

As I walked I saw the Bronco screech to a halt way up the road by our neighbor Brian's house. Hmmmmm, I wonder what she's doing now? I thought. Maybe warning Brian that his lawn looks a little dry? From a quarter mile away I saw the woman jump out of her vehicle and BOLT into Brian's field and out of range of my sight. Weird. But I had cows to feed, so I turned down the driveway toward the hay barn.

Halfway down the driveway I heard a car approaching, and I turned to see the Bronco backing down the road -- backing a quarter mile? Really? -- so with a heavy heart I trudged back out to the road to see what else this crazed woman had identified as a potential threat to society. She launched herself from the car.

"YOUR NEIGHBOR UP THERE IS ON HIS HORSE, AND I TOLD HIM YOU'VE GOT COWS OUT. HE'S COMING DOWN TO HELP YOU."

"Oh, thank you! That was nice -- thanks for doing that!" I shouted.

"NO PROBLEM!" the woman yelled, and lunged for her vehicle and drove away. Wow. What would she be like on steroids? I wondered.

Sure enough, in a couple of minutes my neighbor Brian came down the road riding his horse. His girlfriend followed in her SUV. Brian rounded up the cows, and the three of us easily pushed them through the gate. We then took a look at the sagging fence section that the sneaky steer had used as his private exit. We shored it up in a half-as -- er, um, we jerry-rigged it with some old boards and tree limbs.

We walked back to the road where my daughters were supposed to be waiting for us; they weren't there. When Brian had pushed the cows toward us (his girlfriend and I waited near the gate to turn the cows in -- close enough to be able to head them off should they bolt, but far enough back to give the cows some breathing room and make them think it was their idea to go through the gate), my girls had actually started screaming as they saw cows running toward them. The cows were far enough away that the girls could potentially have confused them with stampeding dachshunds. "Really?" I said to myself as my daughters, the country girls, screamed at cows who were no threat to them whatsoever. "Is that how you think you act around cows?" So I had made my kids walk up the road to stand well out of the way of the murderous cows, and then the grown-ups set to work putting the escapees back in their pasture. But when we cow herders returned to the road, my daughters weren't there.

I stood in the road for a few minutes talking with my neighbors; Smedley and Sparky came sidling up. They were carrying their biggest stuffed animals, and Smedley had been crying. "What's the matter, honey?" I asked as Smedley burst into tears and approached me to be hugged. Turns out she was sure that something had happened to me when I didn't come back right away, because she couldn't see me. She took her four-year-old sister and unlocked Grandma's house, went in and fed the fish and the cats. Wow, responsibility through her tears -- I'm impressed. Then the girls ran home to our house and packed a couple of favorite stuffed animals, since Smedley was sure they were now orphans and would have to move away.

Upon hearing the word "orphans," Brian threw his head back and laughed. I, however, didn't even blink. I'm used to the drama.

"Honey," I reminded Smedley, "Did you think that Daddy wasn't coming back, too? He's just at work, you know." But Smedley must have had an answer for that, because after fetching the stuffed animals she had dragged Sparky over to another neighbor lady's house to tell her the sad tale. When the neighbor offered to call Daddy at work, Smedley must have felt her drama slipping out of her grasp, and opted instead to "go out looking for Mama." Sparky remained unfazed by the whole spectacle. She happily ran around with her teddy bear while Smedley planned their lives as wards of the state, probably homeless.

Our lives are a perfect hybrid of "Green Acres" and "The Edge of Night." Note to self: teach girls not to scream around cows (or dogs or horses or . . .)

She looks guilty, doesn't she?