I Would Have Been A Shitty Cowboy

So, I just tried to do a little cow wrangling.


So, I just proved to be not very good at trying to do a little cow wrangling.

One of the joys of living where I do for the last, almost 3 years now, is that there aren’t a lot of uninteresting days, or should I say, there aren’t a lot of days where something isn’t happening, where numerous dogs aren’t dogging or even more numerous cats aren’t catting, where horses aren’t horsing or a host of baby furry things aren’t baby furry thinginging, where a single attention seeking bird isn’t birding loudly or cows aren’t cowing or where, speaking of the latter, something unexpected doesn’t pop up like, say, looking out my window here at my PC chair and seeing one of the cows leisurely munching away at new found front yard grass. Innocent it seems right? If I were a cow new found front yard grass would be a bonus, right in my cow wheelhouse. But the reason this is unexpected is that said cow SHOULDN’T be in the front yard leisurely munching on his new found grass as that means he’s NOT cowing with his pals behind the confines of the fence. But the gate was closed with his four pals all properly cowing as they should. And this is the second time this week that the normal cowing wasn’t in the script for this particular one. He’s a regular Cow-dini just minus the chains and straightjacket.

Now look, I can see small things slipping past whatever their confines may be, a puppy through a just wide enough fence (hello Georgia as a wee one), a kitten from a temporary cage maybe or any other baby furry from the same that gives them just enough space to liquid body transform squeeze or inventive little raccoons who really are bandits that know how to escape anything. But this is a cow. A  COW. Small? Not quite a cow’s gig.

It’s not like it’s suddenly going into cartoon mode, thinning itself and stepping stretched out cartoony elongated cow legs, one at a time, gingerly trying not to touch the barbed wire while it takes these steps like in some sort of cow game of Operation to freedom.  

It’s a real life cow.

So I tried. Threw on my at the kitchen door emergency when emergencies arise ratty old now slip on sneaks and headed out, shirtless in my haste (I don’t use AC so I’m usually shirtless at this time of year). Thankfully it was just me that was home, no one needs to see this glaringly bright white Casper shirtless ass in droopy shorts believe me, and grabbed a bag of anything that will make a food shaky shake rattling of the bag sound (cat food in this case) in hopes that that would attract the errant one.

He raised a single ear … for like a second, then a “whatever”. His four pals? “Oh shit, dude’s got a food shaky shake rattling bag sound goin’ on here” as they all converged. If any one of these four had been the wanderer I would have been golden. But, of course, not my tan friend.

I’m kind of glad that no one was around though, especially Matt, Celie’s son, as, if he had been home and seen me out his bedroom window making these wrangling attempts, he would have surely found viral video gold, with a speed up and added Benny Hill music edit at my frustrated back and forth’s with the big fella. Well, old guy would have to explain to him the whole Benny Hill music bit of course but still. The only thing missing from this would have been a slapstick element of me slipping exaggeratedly, feet flying up in the air, in a big dropping of cow poop.

The best part is? All of this was kind of in a comedic pastoral slow motion, a slow urgency if you will. Cows can be quick when they want to be sure, as was the case here in spurts, but for the most part it’s a meandering, a head down quiet munch and me just being a bother. Trying to convince Mr Errant of returning to the cows cowing fold by opening the gate, but not being able to actually open the gate as I would have liked to lure him in without the four following out that could have turned this into a completely different comedy of errors made it difficult. Came close though, just a couple of feet at one point before he ran off … again.

And, I’m not a Celie. I’m not Cow Mom. She’d get this down in a second.

Phone call made to her then for the aware and to hear that surely the Tan would just continue in this meandering search of new found grass into the evening for when she comes home. Not to worry.

I would have been a shitty cowboy. Plus the hat, though cool through all the year’s time spent watching it star in movie’s and however many gallons would be needed to accommodate my big ass noggin, just isn’t quite my style. I couldn’t pull it off with the easy cool panache of a say, Jimmy Stewart. No, just give me a ballcap. A ballcap with a prominent gold “P” of course.

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