WHEN COWS RULED - Final segment (Scroll down for earlier segments)


      On occasion we would have to herd cows on the main highway through town.  Because it was a small town, there was no need to be concerned about traffic.  There was none.  If two cars ever came through town together, most people thought it was a parade, and would start clapping and rush to find a place to sit.  Even the cows would look for a place to sit. Who doesn’t love a good parade?  

     Although Gramps always cautioned us about fraternizing with his cows, he still enlisted our help for his cow-herding drills.  He believed the drills kept us out of trouble, and they were a great conditioning exercise.  

     When I talk about herding, this was no John Wayne, round ‘em up, move ‘em out, western.  John Wayne was on horseback.  We were on foot, and we weren’t running anything to the border.  

     In this drill, Lester and I, and no more than three cousins, would attempt to coax, coerce, and prod approximately 2000 “party cows”, half, who were probably out on bail, from one pasture to another.  This meant crossing a valley, climbing a mountain, and tip-toeing along a ravine (Have you ever seen a cow tip-toe?), before finally arriving, three days later, at a lush, green pasture, across the road from our point of origin.  I hated that drill.  Every time Gramps would say, “Well, boys, I think it’s time we move these cows to another pasture,” I’d think, “Why don’t you hire John Wayne?  He’s always moving cows.  And he’s got all those guys running around on horseback, with maps, in case some cow gets lost, and needs to ask for directions.” Here we are, running around on foot, waving our arms, and yelling in fluent cow (English was our second language), while 300 misfits sneak off into the woods, pretending they're lost.

      Of course, I’m the one who gets to go in and negotiate their return to the herd.  While I’m stumbling through the brush, looking behind the trees, I hear a rustling sound, and some wise cow jumps out of the brush at me, pretending she’s a bull (one of the games cows play), thus triggering my alarm system---highly sensitive from previous bull encounters---and causing me to high-step and jitterbug through the forest, screaming, “BULL! Bull in the herd!”  Everyone else was yelling, “Stop! Stop!  It’s only a cow.”  It was too late.  I was already at the house, two miles down the road; had eaten lunch, and was half-way through the sports page.

     Later, Gramps said, “I could tell by the way you came out of those woods that my conditioning drills were a success.  You really put the move on those tree stumps, and when you hit the straightaway your feet didn’t even touch the ground.”

     Gramps’ cow herding drill may have been great for developing speed, agility, and endurance, but I’d much rather turn on the T.V. and watch John Wayne do it on horseback.  The cows would too.  And they ruled.


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