Calf was, as the name implies, a calf -- much like this one, only black. And in the middle of a road, not a pasture, the latter of which is more typical. JAMES GIBBARD/ Tulsa World
I almost butchered a cow with my car the other morning.
Upon leaving Rancho de los Johnstons, the real name of which I've changed to protect its owners' reputations, I was driving back on ... Lord and GPS only know, like, 2,001st Street? Anyway, driving and singing along with the Carpenters' Christmas album, I spied a black calf on the wrong side of the fence -- and, even more wrong, in the middle of the road.
I slowed down to a near crawl, then honked several times at Calf, who bounded off the road and near a ditch by the fence, where his/her family and friends had gathered to watch the potential carnage.
Eying the driveway up ahead on the right, I assumed whatever occupants inside the red brick house might care that a calf is roaming up and down 2,001st Street unchaperoned, so I pulled in.
Keep in mind, I've only had ONE cup of coffee by this point, my hair wasn't washed yet, and I had on a big bulky jacket I found five years ago for $6 at Gap. I totally would NOT open the door for me. But I parked in the driveway, walked slowly toward the door (so as not to alarm any occupants who might be watching me from the window with a loaded gun) and knocked on the door. No answer. Did it again to the same effect.
Meanwhile, what I assume to be a garbage truck stopped on the road, and a guy hollered out, "You got a calf loose!"
"It's not mine," I replied, apparently too softly, as the guy kept staring, then repeated, "You got a calf loose," pointing back down the road.
"Oh, OK! Thanks!" I screamed, and he drove off. After one more knock, I gave up, frustrated and scared for poor Calf. I mean, what kind of person leaves cows running around a field alone?
Seriously, though, I realized I was in a pickle. Or maybe a jam. Some kind of canned item with a potential for disaster.
Anyway, I'm actually wondering aloud, "How am I gonna fit this cow in the back of my car?" I don't have any rope, which I assume is necessary when coaxing cattle into your car. But I did have a linen scarf that might work. I mean, not aesthetically, but I could lasso it or ... Good Lord, this cow's gonna die.
I got back in my car and closed the door, right as someone in a big white truck pulls up in the driveway. Thinking it's the owner, I pull off to the side so he can pull up beside me or drive quickly to the barn to fetch the calf-herding device or whatever was needed to rescue my bovine buddy.
Out bounds a young guy in a cowboy hat (no, the metaphor is NOT lost on me), whose hands were delightfully free of firearms.
"Is anyone home?" he asked.
"No," I responded. "I knocked twice."
"I'll go see if I can ____ it," he said. I don't know if he said "rope," "catch" or "pet" it, but I got the impression Cowboy meant no harm to Calf.
"OK," I said in a deeper voice than usual -- like he was gonna be convinced the guy standing before him with curly hair, epaulets on his jacket and "Merry Christmas, Darling" blaring in the background was in familiar territory. He might've bought it if it wasn't for the blue-and-turquoise linen lasso.
By the time I turned my car around and Karen finished singing her song, Cowboy had stopped and, it seems, been reassured by another guy in a truck that had stopped to help that Calf was OK -- and back on the right side of the fence. With a sigh of relief and a "Thank you, God," I went on my way. Even without enough caffeine, that put a smile on my face.
So next time you spy an animal in need, I hope you take the time to stop and help it. I also hope someone who knows what he or she is doing pulls up beside you immediately so you, too, can experience a happy ending -- "happy ending" as in "fairy tale," not "shady massage parlor."
Peace, love and calf-rescuing cowboys ... XOXO
