I have never owned a cow. I have never even come close to making friends with a cow. Though I would have to say if I did own a cow, it would be of the Highland variety from Scotland. They look like an impossible compilation of other animals: the pelt of a llama, the bangs of an eighties rocker, the legs of a rhinoceros, the build of a Sherman tank. I would call him Ed.

Anyway, back to the story.

Until last weekend, the closest I'd been to a cow was, say, either strolling (quickly) through the cow barn at the county fair or my dinner plate. My husband's experience is just as limited, as you'll see in a bit.

So last Saturday, being even more gorgeous than the usual Monday, we found ourselves up in Grand Rapids at a farmstead turned pumpkin patch crawling around a hay maze, petting rabbits, introducing ourselves to pigs, and picking out perfect pumpkins. The farmer running the pumpkin patch festivities was offering hay rides, so we gamely jumped aboard, sitting on a cart towed by a tractor the size of an office building. I should have known something was up; we weren't sitting on hay.

The tractor tugged us along, and we trundled on back to a gate. The farmer's daughter hopped down off the cart, opened the gate for us, and hopped back on the cart. The sunshine felt warm and comfortable – just enough to balance the cool breeze. The soft, green rolling hills stood out in contrast to the bright reds, oranges, yellows, and browns of the surrounding woods. The sky reminded me of a blue jay's wings. We gently bounced up and over a rise. Had our day had a soundtrack, the serene, pastoral string quartet would have suddenly been replaced with the music from Psycho's shower scene.

Thundering toward our fragile little cart, eyes rolling, snot flying, hooves pounding, was an entire herd of cows. Hungry, maniacal cows. Whatever we were sitting on, they wanted it, and they wanted it now. Not one to stand in the way of crazed bovines, I shoveled handfuls of the stuff into snorting cow faces, comforted only a little by the fact that these things with enormous mouths were herbivores, counting my fingers and children frequently.

Here's the part where I get to point out that I'm not the only clueless one in the family. As the cows buffeted the sides of the cart, circling like great whites, huffing and pushing one another aside for better position, my husband called out to the farmer, “Hey, what is this stuff? Gourmet hay or something?” If the farmer had been less polite, she would have thrown back her head and laughed until her stomach ached and tears ran down her face. Instead, she fought the urge, only raised an eyebrow and replied, “It's alfalfa.”

We finished the feeding frenzy to the kids' delighted shrieks of, “Ew! Cow boogers!” Some of the slime remained on the sides of the cart, making the kids' bliss complete and the ride back to the barn thoroughly entertaining.

I can now safely check off #231 on my list of things to do.

#231: Meet a cow. Done.

© 2005 Deborah Mercier

(Sorry. I couldn't resist.)
--Deb