The Cow Chase

I go running at roughly the same time every day along the same exact route.  It’s a long and newly paved road out of town with very little traffic.  During my run I see maybe five vehicles.  It’s a pretty road; it winds through farmland and forest, it’s hilly, and it’s well shaded.  There are lots of different birds and way too many dead skunks.  Horses and cattle graze freely in the banks of tall grass between the barbed wire fences and the road.  White egrets, when not hitching rides on the backs of the animals, follow them around collecting the worms and bugs yanked up as the grass gets eaten.  I could run in town if I wanted to but it can be miserable at times since those that burn trash generally do so in the morning.  So this road out of town is my only real option, but not a bad one.

My punctuality means there are certain people that I pass by nearly every day.  My running may have been a bit of a novelty to them at one time, but that era is long gone.  Most of them I have come to know or at least recognize and we acknowledge each other with a little wave and an adiós, which means hey (don’t check your dictionary), and I continue on my way.

The amount of people out and about at such an early hour is astounding.  I swear there’s not a person in this town that ever sleeps past 6:30am.  Many of them have things to do but some of them certainly don’t.  Among those that do have things to do is a family of three men, owners of a small dairy farm, that I see everyday without fail.  They have two pieces of land just outside of town, one on the east side of the road and the other on the west.  They keep the calves and cows separate so that the calves don’t go and drink up all the milk before the people get to.  The animals don’t seem to appreciate being kept apart and protest in desperation.  They talk to each other from their pens across the road; the cows moo and the calves moo back pitifully.  Some of them figure out how to escape and wander where they will.  Those that make of a habit of it have giant sticks shaped like slingshots tied to their horns or necks.  It’s supposed to keep them from sneaking through the barbed wire by making it a trickier maneuver, but I see so many animals wandering in the middle of the street with sticks tied to their heads that I get the sense it’s not so effective.  But in the morning, at exactly the same time I go running by, the three men bring the calves and cows together to feed and to be milked.  One might assume they would bring the calves over to the cows’ side or the cows over to the calves’ side, but they actually bring them both to meet in the middle and work in the street or just off to the side of the road.  And that’s where I see them.

These men almost never say adiós to me, and with good reason.  That reason being that they probably don’t like me too much.  It turns out that cattle, somewhat skittish, become frightened when people come running towards them.  I always try to stay as far away as possible and take a path way off to the side to keep from spooking them, but inevitably a few scatter when they see me.  Some of them turn in circles, some of them sort of group together, and every so often some of them dash off in the same direction I’m running.  It’s the bolting of the livestock that causes the animosity.  I’m a disruption.  As I come running upon them I can see from a distance a very smoothly run and problem-free operation.  But as I close in and pass by, the three men, given no warning, look on helplessly as I chase a few of their cows away down the road.  The first few times I didn’t really do anything; I just kept on going behind their cows.  Eventually I felt compelled to help, mediocre as this assistance may be.  I would make noises to get their attention so they might come back.  One family that I know controls their cows by yelling rana! rana! rana! at them.  It means frog! frog! frog!  I felt funny saying it.  I tried it out but my doubt and awkwardness caused me to do so unconvincingly.   It didn’t do a thing.  I have a feeling it may not be a common practice and I got embarrassed when I thought about the men seeing me chase their cows away while meekly calling them frogs.  Finally I would try slowing down or stopping entirely but even when I stopped the cows kept going, so now I just don’t stop.

I know exactly where they’ll end up.  They make it to the stream not far off, about half a kilometer from where I started pursuing them.  They never cross the bridge; instead they head for the dead-end made by the meeting of the stream and the fence, get stuck, and just give up.  As I go on by their individual gazes follow me in unison, like they’re watching a slow-motion tennis match.  Since cows have no eyebrows and are therefore expressionless beings, I can’t be certain whether they’re running out of terror or joy.  I like to assume joy; and if not joy, exhilaration.  That way, when I’m out slowing milk production, at least I know the cows, along with myself, are having a good time.

(Thanks to Zac for the top photo, taken on Isla de Ometepe before the 18k)