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A Case Of Mistaken Identity

Friend hubby was only a kid in knee pants the last time he set foot on his grandfather’s homestead, but he vaguely recalled wading in a creek that ran through the cow pasture. Assured by his elderly cousin that the creek was still trickling along, friend hubby took off through the pasture at a brisk pace, leaving me to pick and choose my own way through the thorns and nettles and barbed wire fences.

Finding myself in the middle of a cow pasture wearing open-toed sandals, I was walking rather circumspectly. Friend hubby, however, was so carried along by a sense of adventure that he was making a straight beeline for the creek, never once looking back to see what had become of me.

Stumbling along among the gopher holes and cow pies, I chanced to look up and realized I was in the very same fence as the biggest, blackest bull I had ever seen. He wasn’t that close to me – yet. It’s just that friend hubby was so far away.

I tried yelling, to no avail. I thought of running, but decided to walk very, very fast. I didn’t want to give that bull the idea that I was afraid of him or anything like that. And besides, he was acting very respectfully, just standing there in the tall, tall grass at the far corner of the pasture, looking at me.

If he started pawing the dirt, I tried to calculate how long it would take me to climb yonder tree. Ten seconds? If he lowered his head and charged – three seconds. If he stayed where he was, I might just reach the fence. Not even daring to look back, I hurried on. As I bent down to crawl through the barbed wire fence to freedom I imagined a sharp pair of horns giving me one last powerful assist.

Very cautiously I straightened up and looked around. The bull hadn’t moved. Nevertheless, I convinced friend hubby to take the long route back. He really didn’t see why.

“You mean to tell me you can’t see that big black bull right over there? What if it tried to gore us?”

Friend hubby couldn’t conceal a smirk. “Just for your information, that’s no bull. And it doesn’t have horns. It’s a black Anguscow.” – Alma Barkman writes from Winnipeg, Manitoba

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