On the way to work this morning, I crested a hill and saw THIS:
Of course, because of the Law of Murphy, she was in a little depression. Not the kind that might make Bossy cut herself, or put her head in the oven, or give away her ear tag and her cud. The kind that's a low area with a rise behind it. I had a choice of going into the lane of oncoming traffic to take my chances with the Mystery Vehicle of Death that might be on the other side, or giving Bossy a crash course in Newton's Second Law of Motion. Since Bossy didn't look to be a sciency kind of gal, I gave the old heifer a wide berth, then gassed my Tahoe back into my own lane. Chaos was avoided.
This is the country. It is only neighborly to seek out the cattle baron and inform him that his fortune is trickling down the road. At 7:00 a.m. on the way to work, neighborliness flies out the window. At forty-five miles per hour. I did not want to be late. Twenty-one freshmen are a terrible thing to leave unattended. It's not like this guy lives next door. He's a three-mile neighbor. We wave when he's driving his tractor down the road, or when his wife parks their truck to stop traffic while herding the cattle to another pasture. I did not feel comfortable cruising up their driveway and knocking on the door at that hour. So Bossy was left to her own devices.
On the way home, I saw a cow-sized spot on the road across from where Bossy had planted herself this morning. I hope there was no carnage. The pavement didn't look bloody. Just wet. Perhaps Bossy battles incontinence, and can't watch the commercials with pipe people and class reunion balloons for pharmaceuticals to correct her problem. Because she's a cow. She has no TV. Much less a phone to call in her prescription, or a ride to town to visit her bovinatrician or bovinecologist.
Surely there would have been raw leather all over the thoroughfare if Bossy had met her demise. There was no evidence of cowhide or cow hair or car shards. I can't help but feel guilty for not trying to notify someone. Imagine how Bossy's four stomachs might have dropped at the sight of a more reckless driver. One who likes to play chicken with road cows.
I've got to stop beating myself up. I can't act as Cow Police for the whole world, you know.