I've had a lingering sense of the blues lately; tough to shake. Certainly, I've not cornered the market on that feeling. To combat that malaise, I've been walking around the fields, checking out the bird feeders and nests, poking in the garden and visiting the cows at the fence line. This is my non-stressful exercise loop.
Today, however, all that changed when my dear Hubzam sent me a link to a news story about a herd of cows that killed a woman in Austria. You heard that right, it just takes twenty sweet moo-moos to turn regular Patricia into Cow Patty.
Further investigation revealed that it has happened more than once.
Perhaps it's paranoia, but I notice that the cows next door are a little less friendly as of late. I just chalked it up to the fact that a few new bovine buddies had joined the group. We all know how it is when you're the new guy at the hay rack. The more I thought about it, though, I started wondering if they are ticked about the Top Cow Contest I did for another social media site. In my mind, all the cows clearly understood and accepted the fact that they had an equal chance - I'm Highlander serious about the rules, but in the end, there could be only one.
On the other hand, if an attack based on my dietary choices occurred, I could totally see how that was justified on their part. I can't help it; I love beef. I'm just a little more vocal about it when I can look it in the eyes.
Considering their unique position of fattening up within 100 feet of my window, I can understand that they would be upset if they saw me preparing beef for dinner on a Sunday afternoon. The only thing I can say is it was stranger cow beef. I have a strict policy of never eating anything that I ever talked to or gave a name. Ask any chicken or goat I ever owned.
If I turn up missing, or if I'm found with eye-lightning wounds, I'm telling you: it was the cows. On the other hand, if you see me jumping the fence, throw me an anti-depressant and I might jump back to safety.