In Praise Of Cows

We have cows. Not our own, mind; our home is on the open range, and cows regularly drift through to munch on the sage, and on the desert willow that Barb is trying to keep alive.

They play with the dogs, and will sometimes peer in through the windows.

And last winter, I slipped on a patch of ice, and couldn't get up. A cow ambled over to offer a horn, and pulled me to my feet.

I like cows.

I wandered, lonely as a cow

far from the madding herd,

banished, for I would not bow

to that which they preferred.

They got themselves in such a state

when I forswore my cud,

and chose, instead to liberate

the rancher's case of Bud.

What followed, to them, was more crass

in what was now evoked,

my saying, 'staid of eating grass

that it should perforce be smoked,

but my case was truly torn

by my tooting my own horn.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is HIDE. Ok.

Cancer came and done for me,

there ain't no place to hide,

and it is no mystery

that it's kicking my backside.

The metastasis that's in my leg's

now clear unto the eye,

and it's tempting, yeah, to wail and beg,

"Lord, please don't let me die!"

But death has got to come to all,

and that's the Gospel truth.

Maybe Eve done tripped the Fall,

but that ain't no excuse

for whinin' like a hungry pup

when it's time to cowboy up.

Five minutes flat. Yee-ha.

For music, here's 'Deep In The Heart Of Texas'. Yeah, I'm in New Mexico. Close enough.

Sylvia appreciates cows, for they are the source of ice cream.