I once had this friend who delighted in sharing a story about how, on one boring Saturday night, herself, her boyfriend, and another couple decided to go cowtipping.
She described how they drove down dark country roads until they came upon a pasture full of cows.
They dimmed the car lights, and turned off the engine. Slowly and stealthily, they crept through long grasses to the fence. Silently, they successfully scaled the cold, metal wires. They spotted their subject, a tall, black and white holsten cow. They moved ever so slowly until they were by it’s side. Together, they placed four pairs of shaking hands onto it’s beautiful, smooth back, and with a push and a shove, and a heave and a ho, a successfully tipped cow!
They then made a very rapid escape, fearing the wrath of the herd that had surrounded the downed cow.
I didn’t believe, then, that her story was true and am still hoping that cowtipping is a figment of an over active imagination.
Having grown up on a farm with lots of cows, I’m thankful this tale was told to me after our farming days were over. The thought of succumbing to peer pressure and attempting to tip a cow is not something I want to visualize.
As it is, my most daring cow escapade was one of finding that perfect cowpie. A fresh cowpie, with a lightly crisp crust. A cowpie, meant for squishing into with one’s barefeet. Feeling that slimy, oozing goo move between one’s toes.
My apologies to those with sensory issues, but this is truly one of my favourite childhood memories. That and the memory of our last cow. A big, black cow with a white head, I can’t remember it’s name but it loved to join our Sunday afternoon baseball games. Tall and strong in the outfield, far enough away as not to get hit by a fly ball, but close enough to be a part of the action.