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(Note: While Ben recovers from his visit to GenCon, Cath is posting some thoughts on cows. Once Ben recovers from his game convention induced catatonia, he’ll be posting about cows. Just can’t get enough cow posts around here, eh?)

Last Friday night I went to feed the chickens our dinner scraps before I washed the dishes. The coop is in the cow pasture, and Buttercup thought I had a treat for HER. It was a bit intimidating to have this huge animal (what’s she weigh, Ben? A ton? (About 750 lbs. Not a ton, but enough to respect! -Ben)) with large horns watch me expectantly. She approached the door of the coop with me still in it and blocked the door. Suddenly the gate to the yard seemed a looong way off. I called to the Chicago friends of ours who were visiting to get Ben to rescue me. He came out and took control of Buttercup’s (the vulture!) harness and led her away, telling her there was no food for her. Alpha male. My he-ro.

As our pals left, Emma, the 12-year-old and a former student, called me “Ms. Hellmann,” as usual. I replied,”Emma, it’s time you called me Cath. Not only am I not your teacher anymore, tonight you witnessed me trapped by a hungry cow in a chicken coop. We’ve bonded.”

Ben did refer to one the cows as “McQueen.” I keep imagining a “Far Side” cartoon with our cows on their hind legs, one lifting up the bottom fence line for the other and whispering, “Hurry! Move your fat udder!”

I regaled my lunchtable with our tale of country adventure today. My pasta was cold by the time I finished. They were all very amused. I sent two women to our web page, and they read it during the afternoon session (I guess others are bored, too) and told me how much they enjoyed it.

(This is Cath’s first post. She wrote it last week, but I thought everyone might enjoy the cow story from her perspective. Besides, I’m in Indy at GenCon the rest of the week and won’t be able to post. -Ben)

We’re officially a farm now. We bought our first overpriced
lifestock, a Scottish Highland cattle. (The name of their
newsletter is “The Bagpipe.”) Her name is Blossom. And she’s
pregnant. I told Ben I deserve a “good sport wife award,” but I
draw the line at donning the long rubber gloves come birthin’ time.
She’s due in November around Thanksgiving. We get to name her calf.
Since Ben is calling us “Blue Line Farm” from living on Chicago’s
train route to O’Hare, he thought it would be funny to give future
calves names of el stops, like “Blue Line Farm:
Montrose” or “Blue Line Farm: Chinatown.” This is a “T” year in the
Highland Cattle Community, so we are probably naming Blossom’s
offspring “Thorndale” because I doubt people will understand why a
cow is named “Thirty-fifth and Cermak.”

You can do a Google search to see a picture. They are kind of cute,
if large animals with flies and massive poops could be considered
adorable. They have very shaggy hair in front, the kind of bangs
that make mothers say,”Get your hair out of your eyes.”¬† And they
have HUGE horns. Yes, even the females. Both of our small children
have now been wacked in the head by cows turning to look at them
suddenly. I hope they have both learned their lesson and now know
to stand at least a foot away at all times.

Within 2  hours in our ownership, Blossom escaped. She managed with
her swollen belly to wiggle under a fence onto the neighbor’s
property. Ben yelled for me to call Valerie, the woman we bought
her from. “Why? So I can tell her we’re so incompetent that we lost
her cow in 2 hours?”

Valerie’s response was,”Do you want me to bring Buttercup?” Huh?
“Maybe she’s feeling lonely.” So now we have 2 cows, one ours and
one on loan. (”Something old, something new, a cow borrowed…”) It
was pretty weird that when they spotted each other, they started
mooing back and forth. I’d love to know what they were saying.
“Thank God you’re here. These assholes from Chicago have noooo idea
what they’re dooooing.” Did I menton they are half sisters born on
a farm in Minnesooota? Oh ya now.) The 2 big girls are inseparable.
Ben calls them “Patty and Selma,” like Marge’s fat, bitter, and
mean sisters on “The Simpsons.” Buttercup’s calf is due in
December. And yet—both pregnant mamas managed to squeeze under
another fence two days later. I called Ben at work and began with,”I
hate to tell you this…they seem to like the shade from Doc
Brown’s trees better.” I take back whatever I have ever said about
cows being stupid.

Ben had to spot check the electric fence all the way around every
pasture when it was 101 degrees. The fence was built for horses not
conniving cattle.

On the poultry front: We released all the guinea fowl yesterday.
The five of them are clinging together and are unbelievably LOUD
when they chirp. They found temporary shelter on the shelf under
Ben’s grill. We got a fun picture of them, although they made it
rather “craptacular.” One of them we released last Saturday, and he
has been surviving on his own quite well. All chickens, and 2
turkeys, are fine.

So far, I told Ben he is lucky that I had the father I did. “Why?
Because he conditioned you that life is just a long series of pain
and suffering?” No, we had cows and chickens
and a big garden and nature walks. Nothing has been too foreign
yet, except for the damn bats that keep getting into our house. Two
major construction projects began on Friday at our abode. We’re
getting new windows, siding, gutters and sealing off the scary
basement opening. (finally seal out the bats. I don’t want to tell
you how many I saw exit our attic one evening.) Also, we are
getting new stairs and a second bathroom. I am glad to be leaving
town for a few days in Ann  Arbor at a conference until Wednesday.

Our Republican state senator came by yesterday campaigning. He was
very friendly and nice. (but short; I felt like Gulliver talking to
him). Anyway, I read his brochure later. He is very “pro-family.” I
should have told him I want gays to move in next door. Maybe then
we’d get an art gallery or at least a decent coffee shop in Allegan.

On a cool note, I was in the Cincinnati paper last week for the
theater group I was in as a teen. There is even a COLOR picture of
me and my old pal Joan Monnig. It’s from 1982 and I’m 16! Max said
it can’t be me since I am so young!