Dear Ford Motor Company, thank you for making such a safe and reliable F-150 for my use when herding cattle...

                Although I swore that I would not allow my self esteem to be linked to the behavior of a cow, my friend Agnes Lee keeps calling my parents to let them know that she thinks Adelle is “the perfect kind of cow for Carrie” and the compliments are going to my head.  On day three of the milking-at-home, tethering-a-cow-to-a-tree-with-a-long-rope-instead-of-building-a-fence-enterprise I am feeling pretty good.

         

               On week four of my chicken raising venture, I am feeling less sure.  The chickens have mutinied, instead of using their convenient nesting boxes for the purposes of egg laying, the majority of them have opted instead to cultivate their own nests somewhere around the property.  I do not know which of the eleven are still loyal birds, though if I could identify them surely I would offer them a reward.  It would seem, though, that this is the reason for the recent decline in Jack London’s appetite for raw milk and dog food.  While that mystery is answered, other questions materialize: how does one retrain chickens to lay eggs in their nesting boxes?  How do you encourage good chicken behavior?  Are the chickens acting together in this frustrating behavior or are there instincts that lead some of them to behave in this way?  I’m inclined to think that chickens are amazing – just think about that, laying an egg each day – but am hesitant to reflect any kind of real thought process into their little tiny heads.   Besides, if the chickens are plotting or planning, and then getting the better of the egg collectors, it leaves me to worry that I’ve been outsmarted…by a chicken…which is surely more reprehensible than being outsmarted by a cow. 

            

             A few weeks ago, Sarah and I were headed out to milk the cow at my parents’ house.  When we walked into the barn, the whole staging area – where we kept the cow’s food, brush, halter, fly powder – was trashed.  As Sarah would say, there was “poo” everywhere.  Some cows, somewhere, were out, and so before milking we went on a search to find them.  Before we went very far, we found that big smug bull and that smaller steer sunning themselves in the driveway by the silos.  If I were a cow, I would find that bull repulsive.  As a human, I find him repulsive.  Almost entirely white in color, with two big horns – one sticking straight out to the side, the other curving up towards the sky – that closely resemble turnips, he has the look to me of one of those egotists from the New Jersey Shore show.  And, as he is an animal whose exclusive purpose is for breeding, I just think he’s kind of gross.   

But no matter how much disdain I had for the bull, it was important to remember that bulls can be aggressive, volatile, and dangerous.  Whenever Sarah fed the steer and bull, she would return to the house talking about how the bull chased her for the length of the fence line before turning about to eat.  “Should we call your dad?” she asked.  “No, he’s in Baltimore, he can’t help us.  We can do this ourselves.” I replied with some bravado.  And so we devised a plan: Sarah would try to lure the animals back to the feed bunk by pouring in some grain, I would sneak around, through the pastures, to keep them from the open soy bean field, and chase them back toward their yard.  And, to add to our team, my Uncle Don materialized at that moment to help us.  My mission – over, under, and around – was extremely successful and nearly flawless.  Sarah’s plan to feed the animals was side railed though, as the bull and steer had evidently gorged themselves all night and had no interest in eating.  What the bull was interested in was people and as Sarah watched, the big animal stepped closer and closer to my small and elderly Uncle Don until Don probably could have reached out and grabbed onto his horns with both of his hands.  (At this proximity, my dad would have advised us to whack the bull on the head with the iron pipe that he later recommended we carry; Don simply stared down the bull for what seemed an eternity.  (Sarah reported watching Don’s life flash before her eyes.))  Finally, the brute noticed Sarah clapping in the feed bunk, turned and ran for the open gate.  Shortly behind was the steer, as I herded him back from the soy beans, and then Sarah leapt over the fence and together we pulled the gate closed. 

Adrenalin rushing, we returned to the barn to milk the cow, only to be interrupted by the uneasy barking of the dogs.  “Do you think they’re out again?” Sarah asked.  “Of course not,” I replied, “we shut the fence” (this was a bit of a dig at whoever had left the gate open in the first place).  But as the dogs continued to bark, Sarah went outside to investigate.  Sure enough, two big bovines prowled, (if such a thing could be done by an animal with hooves? Perhaps plodded?), around the corner.  Sezi was growling beneath the open door of the truck, seemingly guarding its occupants.  Sarah sprinted to the truck, to call my dad (who offered his wisdom regarding the iron pipe) and to shut the doors (last thing we want would be the bull to drive away in our truck).  In the barn, my blood ran cold.  We had been outsmarted by the grotesque horns of the perverse bull.  Was this to be one of those movies where the cows became smarter than their owners and then used their simple tools to gore us? 

I finished milking quickly and then, after scoping the vacant yard, sprinted to the truck fearing that a bull would materialize at any moment, fortunately made it safely in with Sarah.  In the driver’s seat, I took off after the bull, using the truck to herd him in the direction of his pasture.  Sarah climbed into the feed bunk again (this time removing her flip flops so that she could sprint with ease) and within moments the bull was running toward her with love in his heart.  She scrambled out of the pasture, we ran to shut the gate, and then used several pieces of twine to tie sturdy square knots.  Not only did we out smart that bull, but – cruel sphinx – Sarah played on the bull’s emotions to trick him back into confinement!

So there I was, so proud to be a tennis shoe farmer, and there Sarah comes along as a barefoot farmer.  She’s something else, that Sarah!  I'll have to have her have a talk with my chickens.