There's just something about small town Arkansas that I love. Well, love might be a strong word for it. Maybe like. Or relish. Or perhaps appreciate. No...I love it. I do. I think.
I've always lived in the country. I grew up on a dairy farm for cryin' out loud. Fences break. Cows get out. It happened all the time. And nobody cared. NOBODY.
Oh sure, drivers would stop by and ask, "This here your cow? Might wanna get it back in the fence before someone thinks it's a deer and shoots it dead."
"Thanks," I would respond. "I'll do that."
Truth is I hated it when people would stop by and tell me crap like that. I mean, what was I supposed to do? I didn't know if it was our cow. How was I supposed to tell? All cows look the same to me. And even if it was, how was I supposed to get it back into the right pasture? And how was I going to do that exactly? Run behind it and flap my arms yelling, "SOUIEE?" How? Tell me, how? Ugh.
If I saw a cow in my backyard today I would think to myself, "Oh, well hello there Mr. (or Ms.) Cow." And then I'm sure I would muster up a couple of "moos" like I do every time I encounter a bovine of its kind. I've gotten quite good at my cow impersonation over the years. Ask me sometime; you'll be impressed. But, I digress.
But for some reason that I have yet to figure out, my next-door neighbor sees a cow in her backyard this evening and decides to call the police. That's right.
Really? Is it that big of a deal. I just about laughed out loud when I saw the police car in the street in front of my house. Maybe that's what you're supposed to do, but not where I'm from. Besides it would have taken the sheriff way too long to get out there. It just wasn't worth it. And remember? Nobody cared.
No worries, though. For the next 20 minutes, Mr. bald, unnamed Police Officer looks around in some brush with his handy, dandy flashlight for a "beige" calf as he called it. It was comical really. He wouldn't actually enter the brush, of course. He just shined his light through some grass so thick there was no way we gonna be able to see anything on the other side.
And what were we gonna do if we found it? It's not like we had a rope, a chain, or um...hello, a cattle trailer to transport the runaway mooing creature back to it's home. Did we just get the pleasure of screaming, "there it is!" and looking around for others to be jealous of our newly found discovery? Seriously.
When it became obvious that we weren't gonna locate this alleged calf, Mr. bald unnamed Police Officer then strolls over to my neighbors pool and proclaims, "Well, that's a short fence...I could get over this thing and jump right in."
"I will if you will," I offer.
I mean, my neighbors have NEVER invited me over to swim. I figure if the policeman is doing it, then it must be okay. Right?
No such luck. Our night ended with no calf, no swim, no flashing lights, no cruise in the police car, no taser demonstration like on The Hangover...nothing.
There's always next Saturday night.
No comments:
Post a Comment