How the heck do you follow a post about a rogue cow?
With a follow-up, of course.
Naturally, after Bessie went tromping through my yard and down the street, I couldn’t help but wonder how the situation played out.
That’s the great thing about having a mother who is one of your small town’s elected officials. Eventually, someone gives her the rest of the story.
First, it is important that I make a bit of a retraction. It turns out that Bessie wasn’t a Bessie at all. It was a steer. For those of you who didn’t have the advantage of attending a school where the members of the FFA (Future Farmers of America) got all of the best parking spots (believe me, I wish that I was making that up), allow me to clear up some basic bovine terminology.
A steer is a bull that sings soprano. Just think of it as a moonuch.
So, apparently, the running of Stan the Steer (RuTinky Gest is just to much to keep typing) didn’t end on my street. Oh no, the chase continued for awhile. It continued for almost a mile in one direction. That direction, unfortunately, led towards a now-closed on-ramp to a major interstate highway. There was much concern over the effects of Stan meeting with one of those cute little trendy VW Bugs. Of course, it is much more likely that he would have had an encounter with a semi, in which case the butcher’s job would have become much easier.
Stan, however, turned away from the (head)light.
Another half-mile or so in a different direction, and Stan found himself in the small local cemetery. He made the inadvisable choice of heading away from the street and towards the back of the cemetery. That is where his run was ended by a deputy’s pistol.
I’ll pause while you digest the irony of that conclusion.
I have no information on whether the FFA sent a CSI (Cow Scene Investigation) unit.
And thus ends the story of Stan the Steer. It is only natural that we search for meaning in such a tragic tale.
Sorry, that’s the best I’ve got.