Barnyard Tales Chapter 6. Death Wish

Have you ever pictured the great moments in your life as if they were in a book?

“The weathered barn wood slipped past her fingertips. The texture immortalized itself in her memory even as the sensation flew past. It was gone in a moment, but that moment lasted forever. The sensation of hand hewn wood would be with her forever; always drifting right past the ridges and whorls, always right out of reach. Her body turned with the effort of reaching for the wood. One leg struck a board catapulting her sideways; saving her life.

Milliseconds to outsiders felt like slow motion to her. Every sense was alive. The air rushing past her face. The delicate sensation of her foot slamming into oak and sending her shoe flying helter skelter. The hard shove of a stair upon her back and the finality of her concrete bed as she gazed up towards the heavens from whence she had come.

The girl was dazed, confused. She stared towards heaven wondering that she was alive. Golden straw peaked around the edges of the gaping space. Like a gilt picture frame on her demise. Pain was distant then; but the longer she lay the more her muscles cried out in agony, the stronger came her bodies cry. Soon it would be insistent. Soon she would not be able to ignore the call. The girl debated lying there longer. But who would come? Who would hear her pleas and cries?

No one. She was destined to be her own white knight. She rose, shakily at first, but more confident with each passing second. Rough barn wood was again beneath her fingers and hands she levered herself up and slowly climbed the stairs. Her jeans were ripped. Her body torn. Her eyes swam with concussive force.

Slowly she walked towards the house. Slowly she climbed the stairs. Slowly she entered and stoically she took what came.”

Actually, no, she didn’t take that stoically. As soon as I told my mother that I had fallen through the barn loft it went something like this:

Mom: “Are you okay?”

Me: “Yeah, I think so.”

Mom: “Is anything broken? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Me: “I don’t think so.”

Mom: “Well, that was stupid. You won’t do that again will you? I told you to be careful up there. Now get your ass back outside and finish feeding the horses.”

And then I cried. Not the pretty stately crying, but the "is that girl sobbing or beating a dying moose to death with a sick eagle" kind of crying. Because I make a sucky heroine. But I did go find my shoe and finish feeding the horses. And I did become really sensitive to falling off of things, like straw bales, in barn lofts, when there are access holes cut in the floor that lead directly to the barn basement. Because, I LEARN.

Except, maybe not because I fell through another barn just last year. Damn. I really am a sucky heroine. I'm like, hand me the flashlight and let me take a shower by myself in the haunted house with a lightning storm. Nothing bad will happen this time. Really! As much as I go into run down barns it is apparent. Clearly I have a death wish.

An amusing side note: I also only landed one half of my body on the step and I got a hematoma the size of a softball on one side of my butt. My parents both thought it was hilarious to say, “Only Lauren could fall through a barn and do a half assed job. It would have killed anyone else.” *snicker, snicker*

They’re so sympathetic.

Barnyard Tales Chapter 5. Automatic Truck Wash

Everyone has an enemy. At age 15 mine was an enemy of the most vile sort, an ex friend. We had played together as children. We had ridden horses all over the combined acreage of our families and beyond. She taught me how to ramp four wheelers and do donuts. We nearly died together multiple times. She taught me how to drive.

Alright, so her teaching me how to drive actually involved her coming over to my house and persuading me to take out the truck destined to be mine into the front pasture for lessons while it was loaded up with five hundred pounds of wooden posts and the ground was wet. It ended poorly, go freaking figure, but it was educational! I learned that you can’t really rock a five speed, burned clutch smells AMAZING, and believe it or not cat food does not give traction to F250s. I know. I know. Mind blowing, right?

I also learned that my parents have the world’s best senses of humor in the history of life. They got home and noticed the truck was missing. Panicked. They saw it in the pasture and my then friend and I came flying across the expanse on her four wheeler, arguing and bawling, as I told her that I was not going to lie to them and tell them someone tried to steal the truck. Then they started laughing their asses off.

I’m pretty sure that if I had normal parents I would be dead. If my poor four wheeler driving skills had not ripped the down spouts off the barn with the manure spreader, maybe anyone else would have thought it was funny; but I doubt it. I’m trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

Actually, I was a pretty straight-laced kid which is why my then friend and I split up. I wanted to stay home and read. She wanted to go out and drink. It led to some quarrels as you can imagine. Then things escalated. We would come home to find the horses loose. Gates pushed inward so it was obvious the animals did not unchain them themselves. There were flip flop prints! Trees were mysteriously cut down across the driveway. Mischief was everywhere. It ran rampant. We had to bicycle lock the paddocks closed after one particularly bad fight amongst the stallions. But the crowning glory was that poor old truck.

To this day there is some debate about what really happened, but I am telling you the tale as I believe it. Mostly because if I am wrong then I caused even more property damage and should probably be an indentured servant right now.

The old grey F250 was the farm truck. Earlier that day I had loaded it up and taken the trash back to the holler for disposal. I parked it in its place of honor beside the granary as I always did, which is to say in neutral with the parking brake on. (Appropriate parking was not included in my lessons. Give me a break!) I thought nothing of it. It was the same scenario that had played out a thousand times before. I left the truck and went over to a friend’s house until after dark.

About nine pm my dad heard the horses making a ruckus outside and went to investigate. He shone the light around and saw no horses loose and then he noticed it. A faint glimmer from the lake behind the barn. He walked closer. The narrow beam of the flashlight illuminated an empty space where the truck should have stood. With a sigh he turned the light towards the double gates by the barn, as he feared they were standing wide open from the force of a two ton pick-up truck rolling backwards down a slight incline. He walked through the gates, sure now that he knew what the glimmer was in the lake. The silver of the hood was just barely visible through the murky water. The headlights shone through the liquid like blurry mirrors reflecting the fiery anger back at him that I am sure he must have felt in that moment. In the distance an owl hooted. Without a word he returned to my mother in the house.

“That’s something you don’t see every day.” He said with characteristic aplomb.

“What was it?” She asked, expecting another escapade.

“Oh, just my truck in the lake.” They stared at each other for long moments before calling me and telling me to, “Get my ass home.” Because I had to “go swimming.”

Yes, they made me swim out and hook a chain to the truck so that we could pull it out with the tractor. And that is how I learned what a lee spring is. Mom stood on the bank cracking jokes about my failed attempt at a drive through carwash, as I freaked out about shorting wires and being in a LAKE. To occupy my time I took stock of the mushy surroundings and noticed that the parking brake was no longer set. The owl hooted again, and over the sound of the tractor I still swear I heard my former friend's laughter.

This hangs over my dad's desk. Talk about a sense of humor.

And after that the truck still ran. I can honestly say that you can’t drown a F250. There you go Ford. You are built tough, and clearly you are the only brand that can stand up to my abuse. Now you just need to start making some downspouts…

Barnyard Tales Chapter 3. Cow Propping 101

“Don’t rock the cow. Don’t rock the cow baby. Don’t rock the cow. You’ll knock the cow over!”

That was the song mom was singing as I tried to roll Bessie into a kneeling position so that I could pull the sling under her again for the fifth time. The bits that I could see of the bright yellow material stood in stark contrast with her black hide. Bessie was uncooperative. She refused to help me by shifting her bulky cow body. The dense bones of her legs were nearly impenetrable barriers to my progress. They were almost as bad as the rest of her. Sprawled out on top of the sling like a sunbather. She simply stared at me, contentedly chewing her cud as I struggled with the most important one sided game of tug of war I have yet played.

My muttered curses melded in unholy harmony with mom’s music. “You could help me, you know? I can’t get this God forsaken thing to move!” Well, then Bess moved, but only to try to butt my leg out from under me with her raspy black nose. Cows have it out for me. First Buttercup, now Bessie. Maybe I should be more specific; ancient semi-paralyzed cows have it out for me.

Secretly, I believe they feel that killing me will extend their considerable life spans. That is the only possible explanation. Well, that and I keep giving the cute names. And they are pretty much left alone except when they are being fed, rounded up, or are on their deathbeds. So they’re wild cows of the plains! And maybe I try to pet them. Maybe I get some sort of thrill after facing a cow and living. It’s exhilarating.

Or at least it is when the cow is responsive. Bessie had not responded to all of the petting, coaxing, begging that mom and I could come up with except to begin licking and rubbing on my mom like a lovesick puppy. And the repeated head butts at me, but at least she wasn’t as hateful as Buttercup. After two weeks of vet checks, meds, and repeated bouts in the sling being carried by tractor from delectable grazing patch to delectable grazing patch she seemed to have decided that she either didn’t care to try to live anywhere except that spot anymore, or that her personal attendants would figure it out and she needn’t bother herself with such pesky details as standing on her own.

To be fair she had done very well in the early weeks of her decline. Dad had found her alone and stuck in the lake three times, having to wade into the recently swollen waters himself to try to pull her close enough to shore to use the tractor. It was a drought that year, and the first good rain brought all of the dust and debris with it into the quagmire of the lake bottom. He sludged forth valiantly fighting the muck with every step. Feeling it slide up his pant legs and through his socks. After several agonizing strides he met the cow face to face. She mooed at him plaintively. Her big brown eyes reflecting her distress. He maneuvered to her side, hoping to rock her free of the sludge clinging to her quickly cooling limbs. Slosh, slosh, slosh, he was nearly in position when the next step had no purchase. He slipped into a unknown hole up to his chest and was faced with a big black cow side of doom. The cow thrashed and the weight of his position sank in. If she fell over he would drown, pinned under a cow in the murky depths. With fear induced, God given strength he pushed the cow free of her muddy prison. The next two times were a repeat of the same, save that he knew the wily cow’s tricks and avoided the pit trap. Finally when we found her down outside of the lake we knew enough was enough.

She was down near the electric fence, which was working well. It was my parent’s anniversary. Time was short. Dad and I worked in haste to get her maneuvered into the sling. We worked too fast, because I nearly electrocuted myself on the fence while I was dragging the chain into position. Despite my near death experience, it wasn’t too bad. She worked with us, presumably trying to attack dad with her face so her body wasn’t actually impeding the movement of the sling most of the time as she repeatedly launched herself at him. We debated setting her free again when we saw she could stand of her own accord, but decided given her past history that we had to bring her up because the end was near and cow hospice had to commence.

That was how I found myself pulling for life and death on a tiny green strap, begging Bessie to help me to help her get the bright yellow sling in position. Mom stopped her song and added her strength to the fight. By our combined effort we got the sling under her. We quickly secured it with baling twine so it could not fall off again and raised her up with the front end loader so blood could flow to her feet. She seemed content; nosing through grass, hay, and cracked corn with reckless abandon. So we left her once more semi suspended with enough weight on her legs so that she could stand, but enough support that she couldn’t fall. It seemed an idyllic solution until the inevitable happened: I needed to use the tractor for something else.

We tried to lower her, but her Majesty was in a mood. She would not be standing of her own accord today, thank you very much. No matter how much we pleaded and massaged as soon as her weight was her own burden she crumpled to the ground like a broken building. What could we do? She seemed happy. She seemed to have quality of life. Should we end it for her? One look into her eyes and we decided no. There had to be another solution.

But what? What could give her support and blood flow besides the tractor? Then inspiration stuck like a bolt of lightning across the clear blue sky. We wedged square bales between her legs so that she was straddling them. She reached down to take a bite of hay between from between her legs. The thought of, “This could work.” echoed though our minds.

Little did we know that nature’s duplicity was about to strike. As we unhooked her she seemed to steady for a moment. Was that nervousness in her eyes, or just a trick of the rapidly darkening light? Slowly she began sliding from her hay bale throne in a bizarre parody of a slowly sinking ship. “Mayday! Mayday!” I screamed. “B1 is down! Repeat B1 is down!” What could we do? I ran over and braced myself against her, but there was only so long I could hold her up. A thousand pounds of cow is a lot to wedge yourself against, even when physics is on your side. Mom came running up carrying a four by four post. We propped her up and studied the situation. It looked like it would hold.  We waited long minutes with baited breath. The low rumble of the tractor was a dramatic counterpoint to our thoughts. Finally we deemed it structurally sound.

I raced to the tractor and leapt into the water filled seat. Muttered curses and pissed off moos resounded through my ears. The other cows were not pleased with my tardiness. I moved hay quickly, a combination of the herd’s displeasure and knowing our stop gap solution wasn’t a permanent one motivating me to speed. Did I make it? No, I pulled up just in time to watch majestic queen Bessie sink from her throne and happily begin pulling up grass.  I parked the tractor and walked inside, defeated.

I had just failed Cow Propping 101.

Barnyard Tales Chapter 2. Buttercup the Killer Cow

I should have known as soon as I had to dive away from the skunk butt in the barn that my day had taken a turn for the worse. That I tripped over an old well as I made my dramatic escape from the potential gaseous explosion should have sealed it. But no. In my limping ignorance I thought that a bruised shin and a little bit of blood was as bad as it was going to be.

Ha. Like the fates ever miss a chance to kick someone while they are down. I limped around valiantly finishing my other chores. Buckets of grain were distributed. Hay was going to be moved. My dad waited patiently on the tractor while I dragged the hose from trough to the low bucket being used to water Buttercup, our semi-paralyzed cow.

We had discovered her several days earlier, separated from the herd and wondered why. When we watched her try to escape our attentions it had become apparent. She had limited feeling and mobility in her hind end. Now, before you feel too sorry for her keep in mind that this is a geriatric cow. I’m not sure of the conversion rate of cow to people years, but she is pushing thirty in human years which has to be something like 110 in cow years. We can’t be like normal farmers that ship the gals when they are past their prime. No, we have a cow retirement home. Old age and its delights is something we have grown used to. So, we try to herd this cow towards the gate so she can spend her last days grazing in the safety of the yard. She wants none of it. She falls down and can’t get up, even with a massive injection of steroids. We get the tractor, and the sling. Because we are prepared like that. We maneuver her into the sling and carry her home swinging side to side in a hypnotic blur of black and yellow.

Magically, she regains enough function to stand as soon as she is in the yard and promptly hits me in the leg with her head. It goes numb. The cow hates me. I get it. I would be hateful too. She begins grazing. Mom pets the cow and gets a “love nudge." I feel vindicated.

Two days later the cow is down again. She viscously attacks my arm as I am trying to get her up. It goes numb. She starts licking my mom, even as she is trying to give me a blood clot and kill me. Cow has issues. Mom takes her side. Our animosity grows. Mom says it is because I have named the cow Buttercup.

Day four, the cow is back down. After much prodding I am persuaded to go near the hellion only to narrowly miss a nose thrust to my shin. She has it out for me. The cow hates my life. Maybe I should stop trying to pet her when she is down and semi-paralyzed. She is nuzzling my mother and licking her. Mom glares at me when I say bad things about the cow. Buttercup appears smug.

Day five dawns clear. It will be a good day. Then the skunk bit happens. I am paying too much attention to my shin and not enough to the cow as I drag the hose over to her bucket and begin to wait patiently for it to fill. It is my fault really. I know Buttercup hates me. She senses my weakness. My distraction is blood in the water. Maybe in cow logic if she kills me she can take my life force and live another hundred cow years. I can only guess that her motivation was strong, because she suddenly becomes un paralyzed and lunges, FROM LAYING DOWN MIND YOU, to execute a perfect uppercut with her head to my jaw.

Yes. I took a cow to the face. Be impressed.

I was stunned. There was something wrong. I couldn’t tell what it was. As I stumbled backwards (Yeah, I took a cow to the face and didn’t even fall. Boo yah!) I began doing a mental check of myself. I could move my jaw, but I didn’t want to talk. I could think. Was it clear? I thought so. Did I have a concussion? Had she damaged my neck? My thoughts seemed fuzzy.

Somewhere out of the haze I vaguely noticed dad climbing off of the waiting tractor to come over and kick Buttercup. Somewhere in my shaken brain I got very excited. “He’s standing up for me!” I thought with delight, even as I wondered why I was having a hard time saying the words aloud. Without missing a beat he came over to me and started laughing. “Can you do it again? I want to put it on YouTube.”

Gotta love my dad.

By the way, my jaw was dislocated. That’s why I didn’t want to talk.

Buttercup 4, Lauren 0.

Barnyard Tales Chapter 1. How stripping helps herd cows.

Everyone has great stories from when they were growing up. Mine just happen to revolve around animals.

It was a beautiful summer day when my world was shattered by the words no farm kid ever wants to hear: “The cows are on the road. Get home and round them up.” Cows are wily creatures; capable of ignoring shocks from highly electrified fences to get to that greener grass on the other side, and of dividing and running through terrain that ATVs stand no chance in. One does not simply round up cows alone.

So alone, save for the trusty four wheeler, I set out against the odds to try to capture the herd and drive it back to safety. I drove a sea of black before me, okay so maybe only thirty of them. So, I drove a pond of black before me. I made it nearly to the pasture by the barn before the unthinkable happened.

The four troublemakers splintered from the herd. They sprinted towards the safety of the woods like Olympians. From my position behind the wall of black I could only curse. This was what I had feared. I herded the rest of the herd towards the barn, but they did not wish to go to the catch pen. They were close, only 100 feet from it. Close enough, I thought. I returned to the hunt for the fearsome four.

Over ditches, and around trees they led me. The sun passed over head as I followed their ghostly black forms, wispy between the trees. A glimpse here or there and a fruitless search before finally cornering, driving them home. Only to have them splinter again. Three times we completed this dance. Three times I cursed and followed and chased. Three times I felt the futility of my actions, but on the sweet, sweet fourth? On that fortuitous trip I crested the hill only to see the four split like the four winds my soul cried out in frustrated agony. The four wheeler sputtered and died. And my dear, wonderful, life saving father was walking up the hill to relieve me like an avenging angel sent from heaven he would rescue me from the calves of hell and rain vengeance upon them. “Thank God.” I cried in glorious relief, only to be dismayed moments later as he motioned to the remainder of the herd and handed me the cattle prod.

It was clear that my task was not done. On foot now, with only my heart pumping in my ears and the faint sound of the four wheeler in the distance, I approached the herd and surveyed my quarry. They lounged upon the hill opposite the barn; chewing cud in an effort to look amiable, to distract me from their dastardly ways... The expanse of the lake was between us and the hill was spanned by a small low water bridge. A chokepoint. An easy place to hold. A fence crossed the lake dam preventing them from merely circling and wearing me out. I could do this.

I coaxed, chased, cursed, and cajoled the cows across the low water bridge. Predictably they ran around the lake and faced the fence across from where they had been. Haha! I thought as I shut the slinky gate across the low water bridge. I have you now! I circled the lake, my pending victory sending strength to my exhausted limbs  and chased the herd back towards the barn. I could no longer hear the four wheeler for my labored breath as I jogged along after them. When they saw the gate, they did what I had not foreseen. They waded into the damned lake. Not a cow, or two, but the entire frigging herd. They stood there in the murky water and stared me down with their big brown eyes. “What now, B?” I could almost hear them laughing.

So, I did what any self respecting woman would do when faced with a muddy lake (lake mud smells horrid by the way). I threw rocks around them and screamed. Oh bloody hell did I scream. They finally waded out of the lake. On the side by the fence again. FML. I thought as I watched my mother standing up at the gate laughing. I glared and set out again, prod in hand.

This repeated two more times. I won’t bore you with the sordid details of scrambling around and lobbing rocks, solid dirt, questionable "dirt" clods, anything I could find. (Note: I did not get the athletic ability in my family. My aim is utterly abysmal, so even with like, a good dirt clod I can barely hit anything. I'm pretty ineffective.) Finally, as I stood facing off the herd yet again my mother joined me. I was alone in my battle no more. She threw rocks and screamed too, but to no avail. They were onto us, and though my mother is a good enough aim to actually hit a cow if she chose, as opposed to my ineffective flinging, the cows didn’t care. It was hot. They were wet, and they did not want to go up to the barn. Our stalemate lasted minutes, but they seemed like hours.

But with one risky move my mother ended it. I stared at her, confused, as she removed her shoes, pants, shirt and stood in her underwear. She grabbed a stick and marched toward the cows yelling admonishments at them and warnings at me. “Get your lazy asses up to the barn. You damned cows.” “Lauren, don’t you dare take any pictures. If this shows up on YouTube I'm going to kill you.” Like I could react fast enough anyway. My mind was blown. Such a simple solution. Why hadn’t I seen it?

Then the sound we had been awaiting. The four wheeler. My father burst triumphantly through the trees. The four stranglers pacing in front of him in a parody of chariots of old. The calves eagerly joined the herd in the lake as my father sped to a stop and stared a moment before he burst out laughing at the image of my mother wading into the lake, gesticulating wildly with the stick.

Even the cows were shocked at her bold move. They were one upped. They stared at her a few moments in utter stupor before turning and sloshing one by one out of the water and up towards the barn. They didn’t even try to run around again. No one wants to mess with a crazy lady with a stick, wading in her underwear; not even the cows were that insane.

Mom waded out, grimacing at the stinky lake mud caked to her manicured toes. Dad drove up asking aloud, “What will you do if the neighbors show up?” And I wondered at the magical power she wielded. The cows lowed placidly from their place by the gate not one of them tried to go anywhere else.

Apparently all it takes to cow a cow is to strip. I’m going to have to keep that one in mind.