Ever since childhood, I have loved animals. I love dogs. I love cats. I love cows. I love goats. Horses and I have a complicated relationship built on a mutual suspicion of one another and a deep seated appreciation for isolation.
My running routes down sparsely traveled Leake County roads take me past many pastures, pens and irrigation ponds where livestock gather. When I see a cow, I wave and say, “Hi, Cow!” When I see a goat, I wave and say, “Hi, Goat!” When I see a horse, I wave and keep my head down. I’m frequently accosted by my neighbor’s puppy, who has deemed me the giver of tummy rubs. I cannot run past his yard without him dashing out to the side of the road, rolling over and demanding I stop to rub his fuzzy puppy tummy. I stop every time.
I love animals, and that love brings with it a certain tolerance for animal shenanigans. Dogs chew stuff. Cows leave large messes behind them. Horses get your hair tangled in a tree then walk off leaving you to hang there screaming while the 16-year-old South Dakota tour guide tries to remember her what training orientation said to do in that situation.
I consider myself fairly understanding of animals’ “poor choices,” as we refer to them in my house when one of the dogs liberates food from the kitchen counter; however, I will not put up with ghost cows.
For the past several weeks, my house has been haunted by a ghost cow, a young bull that appears in the window, he velvety cow nose pressed up against the glass, watching, waiting, until “MOOOO!”
Mr. ghost cow is made all the more frustrating by the fact that he disappears by the time I get outside. The rush to the door, after I’ve managed to remember how to breathe again, takes about 10 seconds. In that time, the ghost cow vanishes from my 2-acre yard, and I have no other course of action but to go back inside to attempt to pacify my two dogs.
But I have his number now. This weekend I was out working on expanding my firewood pile. I don’t have a fireplace, wood-burning stove or a fire pit, so the whole concept of having a firewood pile is a waste of time, but that’s another column.
While extracting the next log to be cut into sections and split, I noticed a trail going along the north side of the property. It led from the woods bordering the cow pasture, up the tree line to the shed and over to my cow nose-print covered living room window. In the woods, a few hundred feet from my property, a section of downed fencing showed where the ghost cow has been escaping.
I have to admit, standing in the woods with two dogs, staring at that fence, I felt like I was in a Scooby Do episode. I unmasked my monster.
The fence has been repaired, and I’m hoping that will put a stop to visits from our ghost cow. I don’t think he meant to scare me, but it’s not safe for him to be wandering that close to the highway without some sort of barrier. And, I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t a good distraction from my pointless firewood pile.
Thomas Howard is the managing editor of The Newton County Appeal. He can be reached at thoward@newtoncountyappeal.com
