Cows are morons. Stupid, smelly, grass-eating, hay-coveting, follow-the-ass-in-front-of-you, "hey, let's hop over the fence because, well, that sounds like fun" hamburger makers. The young ones are pretty darn cute, but beyond the one month age I'm done. I don't like them, for all the reasons stated above (except the hamburger part), and because they're about 5 times my size and I'm afraid they'll decide to charge me. It's happened before people, hence my fear. I literally came within inches of becoming roadkill to a giant angry red cow. Laugh if you must, they just make me nervous. So, when all 50 of the cows decided to see if the grass was indeed greener on the other side of the fence for two days in a row this week, my daily annoyance intake level went off the charts. Why? Because it's my and my dad's job to get them back in the field! This whole operation wouldn't be so terrible, except I get so stressed because the cows always give us a hard time.
On Monday they got out and dad took the tractor to get some hay to lure them with and I took the Gator. Once we got to where they were not supposed to be, he parked the tractor and we took off together in the Gator. We had to chase them down, go this direction, that direction, drive super fast to get there before they got by us, hope I didn't fly out of the Gator, yell at them the whole time, sometimes get out and chase them on foot, hope they didn't get mad and charge me, and round them all up and get them through the tiny gate opening. Once that was accomplished we had to start the long arduous process of getting them to the barn, a mile away. Dad had the precious hay on his tractor and started driving away with it and usually the hay-coveters follow. What did they do? Stand there like dumb shits, and, "Moo!!!" So dad started going super slow calling them to follow, and I had to drive the Gator back and forth yelling at them to, "Go!!! Move!!! Get outta here!!!" And they just stared at me. Until I almost ran them over with my trusty vehicle and only then did they decide, "Ohhhh, right! I don't want to be hit with that." So, slowly but surely they all caught on to the idea that I did indeed want them to get a move on, and they started following my dad. The ones at the head of the pack kept going with their eyes on the hay and the ones in the back kept stopping to stare at me as if they were trying to figure out what species of cow I am, why I'm not as fat as them, and why I don't speak, "Moo!" So, the whole time I'm yelling at them to keep going, wondering if I can get away with murdering one of them, and trying not to completely lose my nerve. Thirty minutes later we made it to the barn and closed the flimsy barbed-wire gate behind them to keep them in the field by our house for the night so they couldn't go back and get out where they got out earlier. Only, we woke up to discover the next morning that they had trampled through the flimsy gate, found another field with greener grass on the other side, and my dad and I had to start the whole infuriating process all over again.
The bastards are now sitting in the steel enforced farm lock-up until all fence lines are secure. I wonder if I could kill them all and start my own hamburger joint. Bet ya' I'd make some MOO-lah! Ha. Ha-ha. Die...
