Every day at one o’clock, I put C~ and E~ down for a nap and tell N~ and W~ it is time for quiet time. They can play their Leapsters, watch a movie, look at books, or take a nap. I don’t care, as long as they do it quietly so they don’t wake up their brothers (and, on lucky days, me). Of course, that doesn’t mean they actually stay quiet. Some days they do great, and some days we have battles. Today wasn’t one of the better days.
I had just gone back to tell the older boys that they would lose their movie if they didn’t quiet down. A couple of minutes later, their was an extreme amount of thumping coming from their room, followed by loud proclamations of, “Mommy! There’s a cow in our yard!”
I started to stomp down the hall, annoyed at the noise and determined to see what in the world they could have decided looked like a cow. I got to their room, looked out the window, and saw…a cow.
I have mentioned before that I live in a small town. When I say small, I mean the kind of town with a gas station, one traffic light, a nudie bar (even small towns have pervs), and a family-run butcher shop. A butcher shop that has, on occasion, had an escapee.
Today’s appeared to be of the Black Angus variety.
I don’t know that I have ever seen a cow quite that large. I swear, it looked like it was as tall at the shoulders as I am. It was truly one big, bad, black mother (yes, I’ve had the Shaft theme song going through my mind all afternoon–shut yo’ mouth). And it was quite obviously agitated.
Of course, I suppose I would be agitated, too, if I were being pursued by a fire engine, EMT, and police cruiser. Within a few seconds, and obviously to add to the comedic value of the situation, the butcher came running down the street. I know this because he was wearing the long, white butcher’s apron. Sadly, he wasn’t wielding a meat cleaver, because that would have been the perfect accessory to complete the Keystone Cops nature of the scene in front of me. (Really, I wish that I could download my memories to YouTube. Words just don’t do this experience justice.)
As the kids and I watched in fascination, the huge, angry cow, fire truck, ambulance, police cruiser, and frustrated butcher continued to run down the street. Eventually, they disappeared. I never found out the conclusion to the chase.
Of course, I am assuming that Bessie was caught. And, if I know anything about human nature, her choicest cuts are probably now segregated from the general meat population, carefully curing for that butcher’s own private consumption.
Me? I may be off of beef for awhile. There is something a little disturbing about watching dinner run for its life.
To read the conclusion, click here.