Who Let The Cows Out Of The Moving Trailer?
he moonlit dirt road shimmered under my feet in the dark as if I were walking on stars. My companions for this hike were Missy, the Scottish Highlander cow, and six Angus heifers. I had not planned this late-night walk; it was the consequence of a bad decision.
It was late summer in 2017. Our Miles Smith Farm did not have enough pasture for all our cattle, so we take them to remote pastures. When that grass was getting short, husband Bruce and I would move the cattle back home to eat the regrown grass. We loaded six black yearling cattle into our stock trailer, the first of several shipments to be made. It grew dark as I drove the rig home, with Bruce ten minutes behind me in another vehicle.
Partway home, Bruce called, wondering, "Are those our cattle on the highway?"
I stopped and looked in the trailer. It was empty. Apparently, someone had forgotten to latch the rear sliding door. That rumbling I'd felt as I slowed for a stop sign a mile from the pasture must have been the six yearlings tumbling out the open door.
In my aggravation, I wanted to blame Bruce. When we'd loaded the cattle, he shut the gate. But the buck stops with the driver, and that was me.
Flashing through my mind was the horrible experience of a farmer friend named Joe. He was transporting a half-wild buffalo bull on a four-lane interstate in Massachusetts when the buffalo busted the trailer's tailgate and leaped into traffic. The beast was in danger, but worse was the threat he posed to motorists. Alone, with a wild buffalo running loose in traffic, Joe had no good options. He pulled a .22 rifle from his truck and shot the buffalo.
I fought back panic and rushed toward the crime scene, weighing the liabilities six cows, each valued at $1,000, were loose. Were any hurt? Would they dash into the road and collide with a car? And if the cattle were OK, how would we capture them? They are challenging to catch in daylight, even with strong corrals and gates.
Converging on the scene of the last sighting were Bruce, Barnstead Police Officer Patrick Cremin with red and blue lights flashing, plus two of our friends. But where were the cattle?
Two uncut hay fields with five-foot-tall grass bordered the road on both sides. Struggling in the tall grass, we saw nothing, but munching sounds led us to the cows.
But catching was harder than finding. We connected tape to form a flimsy corral leading to the open stock trailer. Hopefully, once coaxed into the corral, they would joyfully jump into the trailer. Then a heifer ran through the tape, destroying the illusion.
A leader was needed; a cow they would trust and respect. I knew just where to find one.
Leaving our posse with the yearlings, I drove the trailer back to the pasture. Wandering in the darkness, with a dead flashlight and little help from the truck's headlights and the clouded moon, I felt a cow nudge my arm, and I recognized Missy! She's a reliable ally with a commanding span of Highlander horns. I fumbled the rope halter over her head and under her chin, put her into the trailer, and drove back to the crime scene.
The wayward cattle were gathered near the police car, its flashing lights off. Officer Patrick Cremin had kept the animals calm and bunched by telling them repeatedly, "Behave, and stop pushing each other." I walked Missy to the escapees. She gave them a loud "Mooo," as if to say, "What are you gals doing here? Let's go."
The yearlings followed Missy as I led her down the road back to the pasture. Some detoured into fields or down roads as we walked, but they always came back. Missy and company entered the pasture. With the gate closed behind them, Missy could get back to munching grass.
Bruce and I got home by midnight, grateful no one had died. We had just enough energy to consider new trailer-door latching protocols before passing out.
