In terms of dangerousness, I think I’d place it right up there next to hugging a grizzly and swimming with sharks. Think about it. There they are, these hairy, hard-hoofed, one-ton, diarrhea-ridden (too many turnips) monstrosities. And nothing but one little tiny strand of wire separating me from them. Sure, it’s electric, but all it would take is a single emboldened cow, and electricity wouldn’t count for much anymore. I’d call that pretty precarious.
Good thing these particular cows liked me. They followed me the whole way on my half-mile walk. I was mooing at them. That might have had something to do with it. I don’t know what they found more fascinating: The idea that they’d found a cow on two legs or the fact that I could also whistle. (I wasn’t actually trying to walk the cows. It was the dogs who needed the exercise.)
Whatever it was they liked about me, they were pretty adamant about it. Have you ever seen a cow run? It looks like this:
Picturesque, aren’t they?
That’s pretty much what they did every time I mooed at them. Kicked up their heels and ran straight at me. Maybe I should watch what I’m saying in cow language. Maybe I should stop mooing.
I’m not sure what my point is with all this. Maybe I just wanted to give you an example of what life looks like on the wild side. No inhibitions. No fear. The things we do here in Nebraska that are comparative to skydiving in other places. What I can get away with living out in the cornfields that you’d get arrested for if you tried on the street where you live.
Whatever it is, I’ll tell you one thing: At my house, we might be strange . . . but we’re never bored.
