I’ve been waiting for it. All season a herd of young steers has been pasturing up near the county road, slowly working its way in our direction. Once a couple of pioneers made it as far as the Lair’s yard, but mostly they’ve stayed closer to the county road.
They had to move in this direction, though, or get collected by the rancher. The grass is just too sparse. And to encourage them to do exactly that, this rancher did something I never saw before: He’s got a bunch of water tanks he’s been moving further and further into the desert – right in the direction of the Secret Lair.
They’re much younger than the usual run. Normally ranchers run mama cows with calves out here but these are all steers, barely calves themselves. So they’re more skittish and not as obnoxiously oblivious passive unconcerned stupid as the usual sort. How can cattle become more stupid as they age? I dunno.
It was only a matter of time before the herd showed up here. The leading element seems to have done it around ten o’clock last night. I’d barely lain down when Little Bear, followed by Ghost, went mad at the open window. This morning I found hoofprints around the garden gate. Figures they’d go straight to the garden. But LB seems to have scared them off right away.
Anyway, this afternoon a little before three I came home from a trip to town with D&L. I had a few groceries, a sack of chicken pellets, some flour, two big bottles of water and one small bottle of tequila. LB wanted out of the Lair real bad, but Ghost chose to come back inside to crash with Uncle Joel. And I was still putting groceries away when LB went on a very loud ballistic trajectory to the end of his cable. I looked out the window, and there was a whole frickin’ shitload of cattle out in the wash, marching this way like unto an invasion. Seriously, I’ve never seen anything like it this close to the cabin.
The problem with cattle isn’t that they’re stupid. Why would I care about their academic prospects? It’s not that they shit all over everything, or even that they’re devastation on the hoof to any garden. Any elk could say the same. The problem with cattle is that this is an open-range state, which means the cattle have actual legal rights. If my dog chases a rabbit or a squirrel or a deer or an elk, nobody but the animal involved cares. But if my dog chases a cow, the owner of that cow has the legal right to shoot that dog dead. And if he sees it, he will (not may, will) exercise that right. It happens often enough that I have no doubt.
So when I saw that wave of invading young steers pouring across my border, there was no question what I needed to do. Little Bear was wrecking eardrums for miles around outside, and Ghost wanted out in the worst possible way. But I needed to keep the dogs under strict control. LB was on his cable, Ghost was indoors. Fine.
Now it’s Uncle Joel’s turn.
You know what happens when you wade into a herd of young cattle firing an AK47 in near-random directions that involve nearby cliffs but not actual cattle? Pandemonium, that’s what. F*ck you and your rights of open range, this is my home and you will not threaten my dogs with your mere existence. And if I run a few pounds off your profitable carcasses by the expenditure of a few dozen rounds of ammunition, so be it. I’ll pay for that in time when and if I buy your meat. But for the nonce, Begone!
And gone they were. They scattered to the frickin’ winds.
I may have expressed some of this by means other than gunfire. I dunno. I was a little worked up over the issue.
But I found Little Bear huddling under the Lair. And Ghost was hiding in the kneehole of my desk, per normal whenever there’s gunfire. Neither of them was anxious to come out. And yeah, I know they don’t like gunfire and that’s what their objection was about. But the actual gunfire happened far outside the range that could possibly have been hurting their ears.
I’m hoping their objection is the same as the objection I was trying to implant into the cattle, should they ever consider returning to this spot: HERE THERE BE SCARY STUFF. STAY AWAY.
