While perusing http://sneezingcow.com, the latest entry reminded me of some of my childhood memories. One in particular involved cows. Oh, hell. Many memories, fond or not, involved cows. Once, when I was six, I was involved in a major production of moving cattle from one pasture to the next. My grandpa asked me (did I mention I was six?) to stand in a particular spot to prevent said cows from going through the spot where I was standing. Cows are big. Cows to a six year old are really big. I was terrified. I was bundled in a big lumpy snowsuit and took some comfort in the fact that if I did pee my pants, no one would notice. But as I said, cows are big. And when thirty cows head toward a six year old, her initial reaction is not to stand firm. At least not this six year old. I started to sweat and panic and I could feel my little face turning red. As they were getting closer to me, I could hear their tails swishing and that was just too close. I think this should have been clue one in a long line that suggested farm life was not my natural territory. So yes, I bolted. I cried and ran but did not wet my pants as 30 cows casually strolled through the opening left by my absence. Surprisingly, there was no shouting, swearing, or even mild cussing. My grandpa was chuckling to himself. With a mischievous grin on his face he said, "Let's try that again. Want to stand my me?" Yes, yes, yes! I thought as I grabbed his hand.
"Grandpa," I said, "cows are big."
He chuckled again. "Yep."