I am one of the few people I know who believe cows reflect the quintessential yin/yang of life.

They are either Good or Evil. And I have personally known both kinds.

I live with Good Cows, actually. They occupy the fields just past our home. One rings a little dinner bell on his neck causing the entire herd to glide across the field, dutifully heading out for the Great Unknown in hopes of culinary largess. They frequently can be seen laying about grassy hillsides, chewing gum and contemplating the Universe, the Sunset, or something even more philosophical. They come should Bill call them, avid Cow Whisperer that he is. (…One hasn’t lived until one has seen 60 head pressing against a flimsy wire fence, adoringly seeking their Cow Whisperer God – who has summarily fled the Back Forty after calling them and is currently hiding under the bed lest he be indentified as the perp who led the cows on a breakout that decimated Bloomfield’s gardens.)

Then there is the Darker Side. And we’re not talkin’ chocolate milk, either.

In the Kingdom of Moo, these are the cows who like to step on feetz ‘by accident’. Repeatedly. Who then turn their heads and look back with a mooy snicker as the victim hops around on one foot, clutching a squashed appendage which has been gently stomped by an errant yet meticulously - even deviously - planned hoof.

These are the cows who mysteriously ‘dry up’ just when holiday eggnog season finally arrives.

Who refuse to follow the herd leader’s dinner bell and can be caught thoughtfully chewing gum up on the back 40 in the muddiest, hardest-to-reach corner of the pasture.

These are the cows who lead the charge into the kitchen when the farmboys, too hung over from the nite before, haven’t gotten up at exactly 4AM (milking time). At 4:15AM some 5 cows are in your kitchen rousting lay-ins and denting the kitchen linoleum. (It may be easy to sleep thru an alarm clock, but I bet you can’t sleep thru angry bellows and sounds of breaking china and tossed pots.)

Evil …. but I can relate.

Perhaps that’s why I’m over the moon about ‘em all.

It was a dark, dismal day. The kind of day when an exasperated work-at-home spouse banishes his companion to monthly Barn Cleaning Duty after he sees fit to try to emulate Jimi Hendrix on his acoustic guitar (along with the record, at full volume. Simply add vocals and mix for an over-the-top Experience.)

Bill’s muck-out-the-barn job usually involves at least an hour of cursing, so I was surprised to see him back after only 30 minutes, pale and shaking. Now, our barn definitely holds no ghosts. It DOES occasionally hold sheep. There was pretty certainly NUTTIN’ haunting around the barn to cause such a reaction.

Bill (wiping brow): I nearly had a BIG ACCIDENT in our barn.

Me (disbelieving): I have no idea what could be dangerous in a near-empty goat barn. Especially since we jettisoned the fissionable materials years ago…

Bill (dryly): Hahaha. SO NOT funny. No, I’m talking a Close Encounter of the Furred Kind.

Now, there are a LOT of Wild Fur Folk on our property. Raccoons sprung to mind. They are feisty, belligerent, and sassy troublemakers. (All the things my Mom called me in my heyday, so I relate strongly to ‘em. They are kindred spirits.)

But apparently no Raccoon was involved …this time.

Bill: …So I was mucking out the sheep pens and the bottom of the door jammed to the main pen. I got down on my hands and knees to pull it free and guess what?

Me (disbelieving ironic tone): You found a sheep?

Bill: NO – I found myself face-to-snoot with a SKUNK.

Now, let it be widely known: my nose simply don’t work. For whatever reason, the ONLY time I can smell much of ANYTHING is when it’s SO odorous as to make people around me keel over. And to me, even skunks smell FAINTLY like coffee…

But my nose pricked up and I started sniffing the air like a bloodhound, instantly calculating how many cans of tomato juice we had on hand and envisioning an emergency drive to the local market to order up a ‘bathtub full’ from a rural store owner who already had had ample warning and past experience with my strange requests – and who should readily know how many 17-oz cans could fill a man-sized tub.

Bill: You can quit your sniffing around – Stinky was a POLITE SKUNK.

Now, I’ve read plenty about skunks. But ‘polite skunk’ had not been identified in my reading, so I requested more info.

Apparently Bill and Stinky Came to an Understanding. Non-verbally, anyway. Stinky would be allowed to continue to live in the barn as long as he didn’t spray, and Bill would stay out of the second sheep pen and give him privacy.

Apparently Stinky was also a very young skunk – or a Dwarf Skunk. Either way, despite the fact that a large threat was literally in his face, no spraying took place. ‘Stinky’ just turned and waddled into the depths of his sheep pen.

Bill maintains Stinky was either (a) too young (b) spray-impaired (c) too startled to spray him.

Me: I maintain Stinky merely recognized a kindred spirit.

And in answer to Bill’s query on if I was actually calling him a skunk …. I ain’t sayin’ NUTTIN’ more about the matter!

Draw your own conclusion.

Either way, it was a win-win situation.

Bill and Stinky bonded over the months during Bill’s regular visits to the barn, until one day Stinky just vanished. Some women have to deal with The Other Woman. I had to deal with The Other Skunk: a non-stinker residing literally under my very nose.

That was years ago, but Bill STILL looks at every skunk that comes ‘round the house and fondly identifies it as a now-adult Stinky.

Until the spraying begins.

Tomato juice, anyone?

When we bought our country home we were warned about The Wildlife. Town legends had arisen about their powers. I.e.: the deer will EAT ALL OF YOUR 2.5 ACRES, the possums HAD TEETH , loved to invade garages, and WOULD EAT YOU, and ALL the raccoons were Rabid. Just a few of the un-urban legends around our small hamlet, Bloomfield.

So when Bambi first made her appearance, tentatively discovering that our house was the ONLY one in the neighborhood without a huge ‘Barkeybark’ (dog, in my lingo), she in turn was Very Polite. Bill pointed out that deer are browsers. They take generous nibbles and move on. In no way was his prized rosebushes in danger (unlike that underground denizen the Pocket Gopher, who took pride in sucking a 5-year-old fig tree into its Hole of Doom).
 

Bambi, Bill's Other Woman 

My husband Bill (a.k.a. The Peanut Gallery) spoke Bambi’s language. (Indeed, he is the quintessential Wild Animal Whisperer.) They all listened – and all the deer moved on. We had Daily Deer, all of which seemed intent on just appetizer-sized nibbles as they flicked ears to Bill's gentle mantra “Hello – umm - thou shalt NOT eat ALL” (…I’d never heard the traditional ‘om’ convert so easily to ‘Ummm’ before)

One day Buck the Buck came by for a visit. BuckyBuck. He was large. He was majestic in size and antlers. And like many a large, majestic male – he was also RUDE.

BuckyBuck The Rude One 

Shrubbery began to vanish.

Rosebushes featuring their first blushing rose of the season were later found headless. (….I was repeatedly accused of harvesting petals for my salads until Bill personally observed BuckyBuck decimating one of his favorite bushes whilst staring defiantly in the living room window, displaying an obvious middle finger on the deer’s part.)

Rude Eating at Table 

What could we do?

The Deer Patrol took care of it for us. Or maybe Bill did. When Bambi came by for her usual visit later, Bill began a dialogue with her.

Bill (siigh): LOOK at this! (waving to  Headless Rose [nee Prize of Season])

Bambi looked. I could swear she too sighed.

Bill (admonishing): I know you had nothing to do with this…but I simply can’t have this. (pause) I shall have to buy a LARGE BARKEYBARK if this continues.

I swear, Bambi’s eyes widened. Her ears stopped flicking and she stood stock still, stunned by the specter of her best human friend turning on her. She appeared to contemplate the possibilities for a moment, then turned and elegantly walked away, tiptoeing carefully among Bill’s prized garden flowers.

A few hours later, I had to call Bill to the back window.

BuckyBuck was out there in all his pompous rude glory. Surrounded by 5 female deer.

Bill (authoritatively): It must be Rutting Season, and he’s there with His Women.

Me: But, look: they’re moving as a unit towards the driveway!

And we watched, open-mouthed, as five female deer and a majestic, rude male clip-clopped down our driveway to our property’s boundary line and continued moving into the sunset.

Rut?? NOT - Escort Service! 

It wasn’t Rutting Season. It was an escort service.

The perp had been apprehended, lectured in Deer, and summarily escorted off our property.

Buckybuck never returned. We saw him around town and I have no idea what was threatened (“no sex” always works, with rude males), but whatever it was…Buckybuck never again showed antlers on our property and life returned to normal.

Never under estimate the power of a woman to get her way.